Planet Stories v02n05 [1943 Wi] (sas)

CRYPT-CITY of

Deathless o

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TWO GRIPPING PLANET NOVELS

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS ONE . . Henry Kuttuer 3

The hell-forest of Ganymede held a grim secret that the civilized worlds must
have to live. Ed Garth led a party into that sinister fortress, knowing he would
never return — but keeping a promise to a girl he would never see again.

THE STAR GUARDSMAN . Albert DePina 86

Europa was the only sanctuary for Earth’s doomed millions, and Mark Lynn
was the only man who could hold it against the battle fleet of his traitorous
Overlords. Yet he could not win — his allies were a fragile peaceful race.

TWO POWEREUL NOVELETS Of ALIEN WORLDS

CONSPIRACY ON CALLISTO James MacCreigh 38

Revolt would soon flare on Callisto, and Peter Duane held a secret that would make
the uprising a success or failure. But he could make no move, his memory was
gone — he didn’t know for whom he fought.

CASTAWAYS OF EROS Nelson S. Bond 62

Two families fought for title to Eros; and the unscrupulous United Ores Corpora-
tion wanted both to fail the Land-Grant requirements. Then came a situation that
none could foresee, and —

TWO THRILLING SHORT STORIES

DESTINATION— DEATH ...... Wilbur S. Peacock 51

One man had to die on Uranus’ frozen wastes, so that his partner might live.

BLACKOUT . Joseph Farrell 57

The destiny of a dying world lay in another — one which could not control its own.

P. S/s DEPARTMENTS

P.S.’s FEATURE FLASH 60

Wherein are displayed a few ins and outs of a cartoonist’s mind.

THE RINGER FAMILY Guy Gifford 61

THE YIZIGRAPH 117

Planet Stories’ meeting place for 6tfans with grieves and gripes, pleas and praise.

Cover design by Gross

Winter Issue, 1943
Volume H, No. 5

20c per copy

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The entire contents of this magazine are copyrighted, 1943, by Love Romances Publishing Co., Inc. All rights re-
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Printed in U. S. A.

Even an old Rainbow Divisioner like
you would pop your eyes at the army
we're putting together this time
Let me tell you. they're doing
everything to make up Just about
the best bunoh of fighting galoots
you ever saw.

And that goes for what they do fotf
us off duty, too! Take this new clut*
house we got just outside of camp.
It's got radios, dance floors^nicd
soft chairs and everything. And.
Pop. you can get something to eat
that won't cost you a month’s paj£»

Now, the army isn't running this.
The USO is. And most of the other
camps got USO clubs too, because
you and a lot of other folks dug
down and gave the money to the USO
last year.

But, Pop, you know what's happened
since then. Guys've been streaming
into uniform. Last year there was
less than 2 million of us. This
year there'll be 4 million. And the
USO needs a lot more dough to serve
that many men — around 32,000,000
bucks I hear.

Now, Pop, I know you upped with what
you oould last time. But it would
sure be swell if you could dig into
the old sock again. Maybe you could
get some of the other folks in the
neighborhood steamed up, too.

It will mean an awful lot to the
fellows in camp all over the coun~
try. Sort of show 'em the home-
folks are backing them up. And,

Pop, an old soldier like you knows
that's a mighty nice feeling for a
fellow to have, what you can
do. huh. Pop*

Send your contribution to your local USO Committee or to National Headquarters*
USO, Empire State Building, Now York, ft. Y .

GIVE TO THE

uso

Crypt- City

of the

Deathless One

A grimly stirring novel of weird
adventure on an alien world

HENRY KUTTNER

3

CRYPT-CITY OF THE
DEATHLESS ONE

By Henry Rnttner

Only once could a man defy the deathless guardians of the An-
cient’s tomb-city deep in Ganymede’s hell-forest and expect to live.

Yet Ed Garth had to return, had to lead men to certain doom

to keep a promise to a girl he would never see again.

A-

I CY WATER splashed into Ed Garth’s
face and dripped down his tattered,
grimy shirt. It was a tremendous ef-
fort to open his eyes. Fumes of the native
Ganymedean rotgut liquor were swimming
in his brain.

Someone was shaking him roughly.
Garth’s stocky body jerked convulsively.
He struck out, his drink-swollen face
twisted with frightened fury, and gasped,
“Ylgana! Vo m’trana al-khron — ”

The hand on his shoulder fell away.

Someone said, “That’s it, Paula! The An-
cient Tongue!”

And a girl’s voice, doubtful, a little dis-
gusted.

“You’re sure? But how in the System
did this — this — ”

“Bum. Tramp,” Garth muttered, peering
blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused
faces above him. “Don’t mind me, sister.
Beachcomber is the word — drunk, right
now. So please get the hell out and let me
finish my bottle,”

5

6 PLANET

More water was sluiced on Garth. He
shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo,
the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at
him. The native’s three-pupiled eyes were
angry.

English hissed, oddly accented, on his
tongue.

“You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is
a job for you. You owe me too much al-
ready. These people come looking for you,
say they want a guide. Now you do what
they want, and pay me for all that liquor
you buy on credit.”

“Sure,” Garth said wearily. “Tomorrow.
Not now.”

Tolomo snorted. “I get you native guides.
Captain Brown. They know way to
Chahnn.”

The man’s voice said stubbornly, “I
don’t want natives. I want Ed Garth.”

“Well, you won’t get him,” Garth
growled, pillowing his head on his arms.
“This joint smells already, but you make
it worse. Beat it.”

He did not see Captain Brown slip Tol-
omo a folded credit-current. The trader
deftly pocketed the money, nodded, and
gripped Garth by the hair, lifting his head.
The bluish, inhuman face was thrust into
the Earthman’s.

“Listen to me, Garth,” Tolomo said,
fairly spitting the words. “I let you come
in here and get drunk all the time on the
cuff. You pay me a little, not much, when-
ever you gather enough alka-roots to sell.
But you owe plenty. People ask me why
I let a bum like you come to my Moon-
flower-Ritz Bar — ”

“That’s a laugh,” Garth mouthed. “A
ramshackle plastic flophouse full of cock-
roaches and bad liquor. Moonflcnuer-Ritz,
hogwash !”

“Shut up,” Tolomo snapped. “I let you
run up a bill here when nobody else would.
Now you take this job and pay me or I
have the marshal put you in jail. At hard
labor, in the swamps.”

Garth called Tolomo something unprint-
able. “Okay,” he groaned. “You win, louse.
You know damn well no Earthman can
stand swampwork, even with bog-shoes.
Now let go of my hair before I smash
your teeth in.”

‘“You do it? You guide these people?”

“I said I would, didn’t I ?” Garth
reached fumblingly for the bottle before

STORIES

him. Someone thrust a filled glass into his
hand. He gulped the fiery purplish liquor,
shuddered, and blew out his breath.

“Okay,” he said. “Welcome to Gany-
mede, the pleasure spot of the System.
The worst climate outside Hell, the only
world almost completely unexplored, and
the nicest place for going to the dogs I’ve
ever seen. The Chamber of Comfnerce
greets you. Here’s the representative.” He
pointed to a six-legged lizard with the face
of a gargoyle that scuttled over the table
and leaped into the shadows where the
light of the radio-lamp did not reach.

Captain Brown said, “I can offer you
fifty dollars to guide us to the ruined city
— Chahnn. And, maybe, I can offer you
ten thousand bucks to do another little job
for us.”

T HE SHOCK of that was more effec-
tive than cold water had been. Garth
jerked back, for the first time looking at
his companions. There were two of them —
a man and a girl, their neat tropical outfits
looking out of a place in this grimy dive.
The man was thin and bronzed, looking
as though all the moisture had been boiled
out of him by hot suns. He was made of
tough leather, Garth thought. His face was
the most expressionless one Garth had
ever seen — pale, shallow eyes, a rat-trap
mouth, and the general air of a tiger taking
it easy.

The girl . . . sudden sick pain struck
through Garth. She looked like Moira.
For an incredible moment he thought, with
his liquor-dulled mind, that she had come
back. But Moira was dead — had been, for
nearly five years now.

Five years of living death — hitting the
skids on Ganymede, where men go down
fast. Garth’s ravaged face hardened. He
forced himself to look squarely at the girl.

She wasn’t Moira, after all. She had
the same look of sleek, clean femininity,
but her hair was golden-red instead of
brown, and her eyes were greenish, not
blue. The softness in her face was belied
by the stubborn, rounded chin.

“Ten thousand?” Garth repeated softly.
“I don’t get the picture. Any native could
take you to Chahnn.”

The girl said, “We know that. We’re
interested in — something else. Could you
use ten grand?”

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS ONE 7

“Yeah! Yeah, I could,” Garth said.

“What would you do with it ? Go back to
Earth? We might swing it so you could
get a job there. There’s been a shortage of
men ever since the Silver Plague started.”

Garth laid his fingers gently around the
glass and squeezed, till the transparent plas-
tic was bent out of shape. He didn’t look
at the girl.

“I’m through with Earth. If I could col-
lect — ten thousand ? — I’d commit suicide, in
a very funny way. I’d go into the Black
Forest. The money could get me the men
and equipment I’d need, but — well, no-
body gets out of the Black Forest alive.”

“You did,” Captain Brown said.

“Eh? You heard about that?”

“We’ve heard stories — plenty of them.
About how you came out of the Black For-
est six years ago, raving with fever and
talking in a language nobody could under-
stand. And how you’ve been taking trips
into the Forest ever since. Just what hap-
pened? I know you tried to get up expe-
ditions to rescue a man named Willard —
he was with you, wasn’t he?”

Garth felt again that sick deadness in
his brain — the monstrous question that had
been tormenting him for five years now.
Abruptly he slammed his fist on the table.
Tolomo’s face appeared behind a curtain
and vanished again as Brown waved him
back.

“Forget it,” Garth said. “Even on Gany-
mede, men mind their own business — usu-
ally.”

Brown stroked his cheek with a calloused
thumb. “Suit yourself. Here’s the set-up,
then. It’s strictly confidential, or the deal’s
off. You’ll know why later. Anyhow —
we want you to guide us into the Black
Forest.”

G ARTH’S laughter rang harsh and bit-
ter. Brown and the girl watched him
with impassive eyes.

“What’s so funny about it?” she asked,
scowling.

Garth sobered. “Nothing much. Only
for five years I’ve been sweating blood
trying to get into the Forest, and I know
the place better than anybody on Gany-
mede. See this ?” He rolled up his sleeve
and exhibited a purplish scar along his
arm. “A cannibal-plant did that. I couldn’t
get away from the thing. Bullets and knives

don’t hurt the blood-sucker. I had to
stand there for two hours, helpless, till it
got all the blood it wanted. After that
I managed to pull away.”

“I’ve picked up a few scars myself,”
Brown said quietly.

Garth glared at him. “Not in the Black
Forest. The only way to get through that
pest-hole is with a big, armed expedition.
Even then . . . you ever heard of the Noc-
toli ?”

“No. Who—”

“Flowers. Their pollen works funny —
plenty funny. They grow in the interior,
and they give you amnesia. Not even gas-
masks help. The stuff works in through
your skin.”

“Doesn’t it affect you?” the girl wanted
to know.

Garth shivered and drank again. “It
did — once. Later I managed to work out
an antitoxin. And I’ve built up immunity,
anyway. But it’s quite a laugh. The two
of you wanting to go into the Black For-
est 1”

Brown’s face was emotionless. “With
an expedition, well armed. I’ll provide
that.”

“Oh. That’s a bit different. Just the
same — what are you after ?”

“Just sightseeing,” the girl said.

Garth grinned crookedly. “Okay. I
know the stories. Everybody on Gany-
mede’s heard of the Ancients.”

Captain Brown’s eyes hooded. “What
about them?”

“The lost race? That they lived on
Ganymede thousands of years ago, and
had the greatest science ever known to the
System. That they died, nobody knows
how, and the secrets of their civilization
were lost. Chahnn’s only one of their ruined
cities. There’ve been a dozen others found.
And full of gadgets and robots that no-
body knows how to work. There was a
central power-source, but Earthmen have
never figured out how it worked or what
fuel was used. The inscriptions found in
the cities didn’t tell anything.”

“Fair enough,” Brown nodded. “Ex-
cept you forgot one thing. You know the
Ancient Tongue. You speak it.”

Garth chewed his lip. “So what?”

“Where did you learn it?”

“I don’t know. In the Black Forest, I
suppose. I don’t remember.”

8 PLANE T

The girl made an impatient gesture. She
quieted as Brown glanced at her.

“From the Zamo, Garth?’’

“I don’t know! There’s no proof the
Zarno even exist!”

“If you’ve gone far enough into the
Black Forest — ”

Garth said angrily, “Remember what I
told you about the Noctoli? The effect of
the pollen? When I got back to Oreport
here I had amnesia. I — ” He hesitated.
“I don’t remember. I never did remember
what happened in the Black Forest.”

“Um-m.” Brown rubbed his cheek again.
“A lost race of savages no outsiders have
ever seen — a race speaking the tongue of
the Ancients. How could they live around
those Noctoli flowers of yours?”

“Natural immunity,” Garth said. “Built
up over a period of generations. I didn’t
have that — then.”

T HE GIRL leaned forward, ignoring
Brown. “Mr. Garth,” she said swiftly,
“I think I’d better explain a bit more.
Shut up, Carver!” She frowned at Brown.
“There’ve been too many mysteries. Here's
the set-up. I’ve got half of a — a map.
It shows the location of something in the
Black Forest that’s immensely valuable —
the greatest treasure the System’s ever
known. I don’t know what it is. The
original inscription, in the Ancient’s lan-
guage, is cryptic as the devil. But the
Ancients thought this treasure important
enough to be worth hiding in the Black
Forest. They set the Zarno to guard it.
See?”

Garth grunted. “So what?”

“Well — I'm Paula Trent, archaeologist.
Not that it matters. For months Carver
and I have been waiting our chance to fit
out an expedition and come on here. We
didn’t have the money, at first, and when
we did get it, the government refused us
permission. We had no proof, they said,
and the Black Forest is impenetrable. So
we waited. A month ago we got wind of a
research ship, the Hunter, coming on here
to investigate Chahnn. The same old stuff —
digging around in the ruins, trying to find
out what made the machines and robots
tick, trying to make sense out of the in-
scriptions. Trying to find a cure for the
Silver Plague.”

STORIES

Garth said, “No cure’s been found yet,
then.”

Paula shook her head. “No. Since it
started on Earth ten years ago, it’s wiped
out one-twentieth of the population, and un-
less it’s stopped, it’ll destroy all life on our
world. But that’s old stuff. Except the
government’s sending out their best men to
Ganymede, because it’s known the Silver
Plague existed here once and was con-
quered. The inscriptions in Chahnn show
that. But they don’t say what the treatment
was, or give any hints. However — ” She
brushed red-gold hair from her forehead.
“Carver and I have planted men in the
Hunter crew. Tough, good men who’ll
strike out with us into the Black Forest.
With equipment.”

“Desertion, eh?”

“Technically, sure. But the only way.
Nobody will listen to us. We know — we
know — the Ancients hid their most valuable
treasure in the Black Forest. What it is
we don’t know. We’re hoping it’ll solve
a lot of problems — the mystery of what
powered their machines, what happened to
the Ancients — all that.”

“No planes can be used,” Garth said.
“There’s no place to land in the Forest.”

“That’s why we want you. You know
the Forest, and you know the Ancient
Tongue. Guide the Hunter crew to Chahnn.
Then, when we give the word — head for
the Black Forest with us.”

Garth said, “On one condition. You
can’t go.”

Paula’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in no
position to — ”

“Men might get through. A woman
couldn’t. Take it or leave it,” Garth re-
peated stubbornly.

Captain Brown nodded to the girl. “All
right, it’s a deal. Sorry, Paula, but he’s
on the beam. Here’s ten bucks, Garth.
Balance when we get to Chahnn. We
leave tomorrow at Jupiter-rise.”

G ARTH didn’t answer. After a mo-
ment Paula and Brown rose and went
out through the mildewed tapestry curtain.
Garth didn’t blame them. The Moonflower-
Ritz smelled.

Presently he found Tolomo and gave
him the money. The Ganymedean hissed
worriedly.

“Only ten?”

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS ONE 9

“You’ll get the rest later. Gimme a
bottle.”

“I don’t think—”

Garth reached across the bar and seized
a quart. “Hereafter I do my drinking out-
of-doors,” he remarked. “I’ll feel cleaner.”

“ Sfant !” Tolomo flung after him as he
headed for the door. Garth's cheeks burned
red at the word, which is Ganymedean and
untranslatable; but he didn’t turn. He
stepped out into the muddy street, a cold
wind, sulphurous and strong, stinging his
nostrils.

He looked around at the collection of
plastic native huts. Till the Hunter had
arrived, he’d been the only Earthman in
Oretown. Now — •

He didn’t feel like talking to natives.
The Tor towered against the purple sky,
where three of Jupiter’s moons were glow-
ing lanterns. At the base of the Tor was
Garth’s shack.

Swaying a little, clutching the bottle, he
headed in that direction. He had waited
five years for this moment. Now, when
at last he might find the answer to the
problem that had turned him into a dere-
lict, he was afraid.

He went into his hut, switched on the
radio-lite, and stood staring at a door he
had not opened for a long time. With a
little sigh he pushed at the latch. The
smell of musty rot drifted out.

A lamp revealed a complete medical
laboratory, one that had not, apparently,
been used for months at least. Garth al-
most dropped a bottle as he fumbled it
from the shelf. Cursing, he opened the
rotgut Ganymedean whiskey and poured it
down his throat.

That helped. Steadied somewhat, he
went to work. The Noctoli pollen anti-
toxin was still here, but it might have lost
its efficacy.

He tested it.

Good. It seemed strong, the antibodies
having a long life-cycle. It would work.

Garth packed a compact medical kit. Af-
ter that he stood for quite a while staring
at two blank spaces on the wall, where pic-
tures had once hung.

Moira and Doc Willard.

Damn! Garth snatched up the liquor and
fled the house. He fought his way along
the steep path that led to the Tor’s sum-
mit. The physical exertion was a relief.

A T THE TOP, he sat down, his back
against a rock. Beneath him lay Ore-
town, yellow-blue lights winking dimly. In
a cleared field some distance away was the
ovoid shape of the spaceship that had
brought Paula and Brown — the Hunter. ,
To the west, across sandy desert, lay
Chahnn, dead city that had once housed an
incredibly-advanced science — lost now, its
people dust. Northwest, beyond distant
ridges, was the Black Forest, unexplored,
secret, menacing.

Six years ago Dr. Jem Willard had come
to Ganymede with his intern, Ed Garth.
Willard was trying to discover the cure for
the Silver Plague that was wrecking Earth.
He would have found it — he had got on the
track. But —

An emergency call had come in one night.
A native needed an appendectomy. Wil-
lard couldn’t fly a plane. He had called on
Garth, and Garth had been drunk.

But he had piloted the plane anyhow.
The crack-up happened over the Black
Forest.

That was the last thing Garth remem-
bered, or almost the last. It would have
been more merciful if the oblivion had been
complete. Months later he staggered out
of l|he Forest into Oretown, alone. The
Noctoli poison had almost erased his ex-
periences from his mind. He could remem-
ber a bare cell where he and Willard had
been prisoned — that, and one other thing.

A picture of Doc Willard stretched on an
altar, while Garth lifted a gleaming, razor-
sharp knife above his friend’s breast.

He remembered that, but no more. It
was enough.

The question burning in his brain had
nearly wrecked his sanity. He had tried to
get back into the Black Forest, to find Wil-
lard, dead or alive, to learn what had hap-
pened — to discover the answer to his prob-
lem. He had failed.

A year later he learned that his fiancee,
Moira, had died of the Silver Plague.
And he knew that Willard might have saved
her, had he lived and continued his re-
search.

After that, Ed Garth hit the skids. He
went down fast, stopping only when he
reached the bottom.

He killed the bottle and threw it out into
emptiness, watching yellow light glint on
glass as it dropped.

PLANET STORIES

10

Well, he had his chance now. An expe-
dition going into the Black Forest. But
Garth was no longer the same husky giant
who had fought his way through that deadly
jungle. Five years on the skids had played
havoc with him. Stamina was gone. And
the Black Forest wtts as terrible, as power-
ful, as ever.

Garth wished he had brought another
bottle.

II

J UPITER is a ball of luminous clouded
marble, gigantic in the sky of Gany-
mede. Its light is a queer, paie glow that
lacks the warm brilliance of sunlight. When
the titanic planet lifts over the horizon,
gravity seems to shift, and the ground feels
unstable beneath your feet.

Jupiter was rising now. Oretown lay
ugly and desolate in the strange dawn.
Across the plain where the spaceship had
landed a string of truck-cats, big silvery
desert freighters, stood motionless, ready to
start the trip. There were signs of activity.
At the central port of the Hunter stood a
lanky, gray-haired man with a clipped, stiff
Van Dyke. Behind him was Captain Brown.

Garth, his medical kit strapped to his
back, ploughed through the light film of
snow that lay over the sand. He was shiv-
ering in his thin garments, wishing he had
a drink. Neither Brown nor his compan-
ion saw Garth’s approach. The gray-haired
man was speaking.

“ — time to start. If this guide of yours
doesn’t show up, we’ll have to wait till we
find another.”

“He’ll show up,” Brown said. “I only
gave him ten bucks.”

Garth reached the foot of the ramp lead-
ing up to the port -valve. “ ’Morning.
Am I late?”

There was no answer. He climbed the
slope, slippery with snow despite the skid-
treads, and stopped before the two men.
Brown nodded at him.

“Here’s our guide. Commander Benson.”
Benson scowled incredulously under
tufted brows. “What the devil I You —
you’re an Earthman!”

“Sure,” Garth said. “What about it?”
The Commander glanced at Brown. “I
expected a native. I didn’t know — •” He
left the sentence hanging. “You can’t wear

those rags, man. Captain, break out some
clothes for him.” Without another look
at Garth, Benson hurried down the ramp,
shouting orders to someone below.

Brown grinned at the other. “Come on
inside,” he urged, and, in a lower tone,
“He’s the big shot. You know enough to
keep your mouth shut — eh?”

Garth nodded. Brown peered at him
sharply.

“You need coffee. I’ll lace it. Come
along.” He took Garth to the galley, and,
presently, supplied food, drink, and cloth-
ing. He lit a cigaret, idly watching the
smoke sucked into the air-conditioning
grill.

“Benson’s a tough egg,” he said at last
“If he had the slightest idea we were figur-
ing on — what we’re figuring on, there’d be
trouble. The Commander never takes
chances. We’ve got to give him the slip,
somehow.”

Garth gulped coffee. “How many men
do you have ?”

“Ten.”

“Not many.”

“Fully armed, though. There are sixty in
the expedition altogether, but I could only
feel sure of ten. Some of them I planted
myself.”

Garth took the cigaret Brown handed
him. “Thanks ... I know Chahnn pretty
well. Once we get there, we can get away
from the others.”

“How?”

“Underground passages — not well
known. We’ll come out about thirty miles
from Chahnn, and from there it’s another
twenty to the Black Forest.”

“The last lap on open ground?”

“Yeah.”

“Not so good. If Benson misses us, he’ll
have planes out scouting. I’ve a hunch he’s
suspicious already.”

“If he catches up with us, so what?
There’ll be other chances.”

“That’s what you think,” Brown said
grimly. “I told you Benson was a tough
egg. He’d clap us all in the brig and we’d
end up with prison sentences on Earth — •
hazarding the success of a planetary expe-
dition, they call it. So you see why we’ve
got to find this treasure, whatever it is.”

“Then you don’t know either, eh?”

“Maybe I’ve a few ideas . . . Finished?
Let’s go, then.” Brown came to his feet.

CRYPT -CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OISE 11

G ARTH followed Brown out of the
ship, pondering. The Ancients had,
admittedly, been an incredibly advanced
race. Any treasure they thought worth
guarding would be plenty valuable. Gold?
Gems? They seemed trivial, compared to
the tremendous scientific powers of the
Ancients. And unimportant as well, while
the Silver Plague raged over Earth.

They moved along the string of truck-
cats, each loaded with the necessary equip-
ment, and reached the first. Commander
Benson was already there, talking to the
pilot. He looked around.

“Ready? What’s your name — Garth?
All right, get in.”

The front compartment of the truck-cat
was roomy enough. Paula Trent, Garth
saw, was already there. She gave no sign
that she noticed him. He shrugged and
found a seat, and Captain Brown dropped
beside him, impassive as ever.

The pilot came in. “Sit up here, next to
me, buddy,” he ordered. “I’ll need your
help wrestling this tank through the ar-
royos.”

Benson himself was the last man to en-
ter. He slid the door shut and nodded.
“Warm her up.”

Beside the driver, Garth could not see
the others, nor could he hear their conver-
sation as the motors coughed and snarled
into life. The truck-cat lurched forward
on her caterpillar treads. The pilot looked
inquiringly at Garth.

“Where’ll I head? West? What about
these quicksands I’ve been hearing about?”

“Steer for that mountain peak ’way over
there,” Garth told him. “It’s easy to see
the sink-holes. They’re big grey patches on
the sand, with no snow on ’em.”

The roar of the engine died into a
monotonous murmur. It was possible to
hear the conversation in the rear of the
compartment. Commander Benson was
talking.

“ — atomic power. It must have been
that ; there’s no other answer. All we need
to know is the nature of the booster charge.”

“I don’t get it,” Paula said. “Booster
charge ?”

“As far as our physicists know, atomic
power’s possible if there’s a known way to
start it and control it. Earth’s reserves
are nearly exhausted. Oil, coal — used up

almost completely. And Earth needs power
plenty bad, to maintain civilization.”
“The other planets have fuel.”
“Spaceshipping’s too expensive. It’s pro-
hibitive, Paula. Unless a new power source
is found very soon, Earthmen may have to
migrate to another world — and our civili-
zation’s so complex that that’s nearly im-
possible. Maybe we can find the answer in
Chahnn this time. It was one of the big-
gest cities of the Ancients.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Captain Brown
said.

B ENSON grunted. “I did, once. Years
ago. Tremendous! The scientific
achievements they must have had! And
nobody knows what happened to the An-
cients. They just vanished, and their ma-
chines kept running till they’d used up
their power — and stopped. So there’s no
trace left. We’ve located the fuel cham-
bers, but in every case they’ve been empty.
Experiments have been made — unsuccess-
fully.”

“You still think my translation of the
Harro Panel was wrong, eh ?” Paula put in.

“I do,” Commander Benson said. “It
was a variable cipher. No one else agrees
with you that it was a code map.”

“Ever heard of a double code?”

“I’m sorry,” Benson said shortly. “We’ve
settled all this. The Black Forest is im-
passable. We can’t risk our chance of
success on a wild goose chase.”

Beside the pilot, Garth’s mouth twisted
sardonically. He had an idea, now, what
Carver Brown and Paula were after. The
secret of the Ancients’ power-source. Well,
it might be found in the Black Forest. Any-
thing might. Including the lost race of the
Zarno, and . . . His eyes went hard. Not
yet would he let himself believe Doc Wil-
lard was still alive. The most he could
hope for was an answer to that question —
the tormenting problem of whether or not
he had killed Willard.

Lost in his absorption, he snapped out
of it scarcely in time as the truck-cat skid-
ded on slick ice.

“Hard left! Sand the treads!” In-
stinctively his hand flashed to the right
lever, releasing a sprinkling of sand that
provided traction. He held it down while
the pilot fought the wheel. They lurched,

12 PLANET

swung half around, and found level sur-
face again. Through the window Garth
could see a twenty-foot-wide funnel, slop-
ing down to a black hole at the center.

“What was it?” the pilot asked.

“Creetkas, the natives call ’em, but that
doesn’t mean much. S'ix-foot insects. Poi-
sonous. They dig traps like ant-lions on
Earth, pits with sloping sides. Once you
skid on the ice, you slip on down to the
hole at the bottom.”

“Dangerous ?”

“Not to us, in here. But we might have
damaged the engine.”

“Keep your eyes open after this, Garth,”
Commander Benson said sharply.

“Okay.” Garth was silent. The truck-
cat drove on, leading the procession.

The vehicles were fast. On level ground
they raced, hitting eighty m.p.h. sometimes.
By Jupiter-set they had reached Chahnn.
Paula, for one, was disappointed.

“I expected a city,” she told Garth as
they stared around at the mile-square block
of black stone, raised a few feet above
ground level, its surface broken by a few
structures oddly reminiscent of the subway
kiosks of two centuries ago.

“It’s all underground,” Garth said. He
was feeling shaky, needing a shot or two
of liquor. But there was none. In lieu of
it, he borrowed a cigaret from the girl and
idled about, watching the men make camp.

T HE ROOMY truck-cats provided ac-
commodations for sixty men without
crowding. It wasn’t necessary to set up
tents. Indeed, in that icy air, only “warmer”
tents, heated by induced current in their
metallic fabric, would have been feasible.
The trucks, however, could be heated easily
and were air-conditioned. Garth walked
over to a kiosk and peered into the black
depths. Chahnn lay below, the gigantic,
complicated city of the Ancients.

Through Chahnn was the road to the
Black Forest — the only road they could
use, under the circumstances.

Garth shivered and went in search of
Brown. He was feeling shakier than ever.
Vividly in his mind was a picture he did
not want to remember — a man stretched on
an altar, a knife at his breast. . . .

He found Brown beside one of the trucks,
looking into the darkness.

“Captain — ”

STORIES

“Huh? Oh, Garth. Say, Paula — Miss
Trent took a flashlamp and went down into
Chahnn to do a bit of exploring. I was
thinking of going after her. Any danger
down there?”

Garth shook his head. “It’s a dead city.
She'll be okay.”

“Unless she gets lost.”

“She won’t. There are markers pointing
to the outlets. How about a drink? I
could use one.”

Scowling, Brown nodded and pushed
Garth into the truck. “I bunk in here, with
the Commander. You’ll have to find a place
with the men, somewhere. Oh, by the
way — ” He pushed folded slips into
Garth’s hand. “Here’s the rest of that
forty. And here’s a drink.”

Garth gulped brandy better than any he
had tasted in years. He didn’t bother with
a glass. Brown watched him with an al-
most imperceptible curl of the lip.

“Thanks . . . When do I get that ten
thousand ?”

“When we’re back here. I don’t trust
you quite enough to let you have it now.”

Garth wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, considered, and drank again. “I
won’t run out on you. You’re after that
Ancients’ power-source, aren’t you?”

Brown’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Any of
your business?”

“Not in the way you mean. But I know
the Black Forest. I might be able to give
you some ideas, if I’m not left too much in
the dark. Still, I can guess a little. I
know you expect to run into the Zarno.”

“Yeah?”

Garth made an impatient gesture. “Hell,
why did you want me as a guide ? It wasn’t
only because I knew the Forest. I can
speak the Ancient Tongue — the same lan-
guage the Zarno are supposed to use. You’ll
want me to palaver with them.”

“Maybe.” Brown went to the back of
the truck and found a fresh pack of ciga-
rets. “We can talk about that later.”

“We ought to talk now. I know what
sort of equipment you’ll need in the Forest.
If you run out on Benson half-equipped,
it’ll be just too bad.”

The door swung open, admitting a blast
of frigid air. Commander Benson stepped
in, his lips tight and hard, his eyes blazing.
Brown, at the end of the chamber, swung

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OWE 13

around, a sudden, surprised tenseness in his
attitude.

“I don’t think you’ll do any running out
on me, Captain,” Benson said.

Brown flashed Garth a glance. “Damn
you,” he half-whispered. He took a step
forward, tigerishly menacing.

B ENSON pulled a gun from his pocket.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Hold it —
right there. I thought you’d given up that
crazy idea you and Paula had, but appar-
ently — ” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll have
to put you and the girl under guard. No
one in this outfit’s heading for the Black
Forest if I can help it.”

Brown’s hand hovered in midair.

“Don’t try it,” Benson said. “Keep your
gun where it belongs. The sound of a shot
wouldn’t help you any.” He stepped back,
his mouth opening in a shout that would
summon others.

Brown, at the other end of the truck,
could not have reached him in time, but the
Commander had forgotten or ignored
Garth. That was a mistake. Garth was
only a few feet from Benson, and he gal-
vanized into unexpected action. He sprang,
one hand clamping over the gun, the other,
clenched, driving in a hard, short jab at
Benson’s chin.

There was strength in that punch, and
ic connected at the right point. Had Garth
not been gripping the Commander’s hand,
the latter would have gone backward, out
of the truck.

“Knockout!” Brown said tonelessly. He
was suddenly beside Garth, yanking Benson
forward. “Shut the door. Quick.”

Garth obeyed. Turning, he saw the Cap-
tain kneeling beside Benson’s motionless
form. After a moment Brown looked
up.

“He’ll come out of it soon. Maybe too
soon. Get me those straps from the corner.”

Garth did that, and then had another
drink. He felt lousy. He watched Brown
bind the Commander and thrust the lax
figure out of sight, under a bunk.

“That does it,” Brown said, rising.
“We’re in the soup now. But — it was
lucky you hit him when you did.”

“What now?”

“We start for the Black Forest before
Benson wakes up. I’m second in com-
mand. I’ll get my own men, and we’ll

jump the gun.” Brown’s eyes were excited.

“Equipment ?”

“We’ll take what we can. Weapons,
mostly. Stay with me.”

They went out of the truck into the soft
light of four moons, two large, two tiny.
Fourfold shadows paced them over the
icy slick. Garth hurried off to find his
medical kit. By the time he returned,
Brown had mustered his men and was
waiting. He gave Garth a brief glance.

“Okay. Morgan — ” He turned to a
giant in uniform. “I’ll be back in a couple
of hours. As soon as we find Miss Trent.
’Bye.”

“ ’Bye, sir.”

Garth led the way into one of the kiosks.
Lamps were flashed on. A spiral ramp led
steeply down.

In an undertone Brown said, “I told
Morgan Commander Benson sent me to
find Paula Trent — that she was lost in the
city. So we’re safe till — ■”

“We’re safe till we leave the under-
ground passage,” Garth said. “After that,
twenty miles across open ground. Has
Benson got planes?”

“Portable ones, yeah.”

“Then we’d better do that twenty miles
at night.”

The ramp ended. Before them was a gi-
gantic room where their tiny lamps were
lost. Here and there enigmatic shadows
loomed, the dead, fantastic machines of the
Ancients that had once made Chahnn alive
and powerful.

G ARTH went directly to an opening in
the wall, Brown and his ten men fol-
lowing, and entered a short tunnel. At
one spot he paused, ran his finger over a
panel of smooth metal, and pressed. A
black oval opened silently.

“Here’s the way. They won’t follow us
beyond this point.”

Brown nodded. “Sampson, get the men
inside. Wait here for me. I’ll be back as
soon as I can.”

A burly, beak-nosed fellow with a cast in
one eye and flaming red hair saluted casu-
ally. “Right. Come on, boys. Hop through.
Mind your packs.”

Garth stared at Brown. “What d’you
mean ? Where — ”

The Captain said, “We’re taking Paula
Trent with us.”

14 PLANET

“No! It’s nearly suicide for us — she
couldn’t make it at all.”

“She’s tougher than you think. Besides,
she’s got the map. And she’s an archae-
ologist. I can’t read the Ancients’ lingo.
Can you?”

Garth shook his head. “I can speak it,
that’s all. But — ”

“If we find what we’re after, we’ll need
Paula Trent. She’s down here somewhere.
Let’s go find her.”

“I tell you—”

Brown brought out a gun and leveled it.

“Find her. Or I’ll find her myself, and
we’ll head for the Black Forest without
you. Because you’ll be dead. I haven’t
come this far to let you stop me. And
chivalry looks a bit funny on a guy like
you.”

Sudden murder-light flared in the pale
eyes.

“Find her !” Brown whispered. “And —
fast!”

Ill

G ARTH knuckled under. There was
nothing else to do. He knew Brown
wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, and, after all,
what the devil did Paula Trent mean to
him? Her life was unimportant, compared
to the hopeless quest that had quickened in
his mind, despite himself.

For Doc Willard might still be alive.
Even if he wasn’t, there was that notebook
the Doc had always carried around with
him — a hook that contained the medico’s
theories about the Silver Plague. Even if
that ghastly dream-like memory were not
merely delirium — even if Garth, witless and
unknowing, had killed Willard — there was
always that dim, desperate chance that the
cure for the Plague might be found in the
Black Forest.

So — damn Paula Trent ! She didn’t mat-
ter, when the lives of millions might de-
pend on Garth’s penetrating the jungle that
had baffled him for five years.

Without a word he turned and started
back, Brown keeping close beside him. The
huge chamber loomed before them, filled
with its cryptic shadows. There was time
now to see what they had missed in their
quick flight a few moments ago — though
not much time, for pursuit might start at
any minute.

STORIES

Dead silence, and darkness, broken by
the crossing beams of the brilliant lamps.
Garth listened.

“Hear anything?”

Brown shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. We’ll try this way.”

Then went into a passage that sloped
down, ending in a vaulted room larger than
the first. Brown swung up his gun abruptly
as a figure seemed to leap from blackness
in the ray of the lamp. Garth caught his
arm.

“Robot. Unpowered. They’re all over the
city.”

The robots — slaves of the Ancients,
Garth thought, who had died with them,
lacking the fuel that could quicken them
to life. No Earthly scientists had ever been
able to analyze the construction of the ma-
chines, for they were built of an alloy
that was apparently indestructible. Acid
and flame made no impression on the
smooth, glittering black surface.

This one, like all the others, was roughly
man-shaped, nearly eight feet tall, and
with four arms, the hands extended into
limber jointed fingers almost like tenden-
cies. From the mask-like face complex
glassy eyes stared blankly. It stood mo-
tionless, guarding a world that no longer
needed guardians.

With a little shrug Garth went on, his
ears alert for sounds. From the walls bi-
zarre figures in muraled panels watched.
Those murals showed a world of incredibly
advanced science, Garth knew. He had
seen them before. He spared them not a
glance now.

The machines —

What were they? They loomed like dino-
saurs in the endless chain of high-domed
vaults. They had once given Chahnn
power and life and strength. The murals
showed that. The Ancient Race had used
antigravity — a secret unknown to Earth-
men — and they had created food by the
rearrangement of atomic patterns, not even
requiring hydroponic tank cultures. They
had ruled this world like gods.

And they had passed with no trace, leav-
ing only these silent monuments to their
greatness. With the power of the Ancients,
Earth’s lack of fuel-reserves would not
matter. If the secret of atomic power could
be found again, these machines would roar

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OJVE 15

into thundering life — and machines like
them would rise on Earth.

Power and greatness such as civilization
had never known ! Power even to reach the
stars !

And — Garth thought wryly — a power
that would be useless unless a cure for the
Silver Plague could be found.

H E WAS almost running now, his foot-
steps and Brown’s echoing hollowly
in the great rooms. Silently he cursed
Paula Trent. There were other levels be-
low, many of them, and she might be down
there — which would make the task almost
impossible.

A distant flicker of light jerked Garth to
a halt. He switched off his lamp, motioning
for Brown to do the same.

It came again, far away, a firefly glimpse.
“Paula?” the Captain said.

“Guess so. Unless they’re after us al-
ready.”

“Take it easy, then.”

They went on, running lightly on their
toes. The light had vanished, but Garth
knew the way. Suddenly they came out of
a short tunnel into one of the great rooms,
and relief flooded Garth as he saw Paula’s
face, pale in reflected light, a dozen feet
away.

Simultaneously a faint sound came rhy-
thmically — like dim drums.

Garth said sharply, “Hear that? Men
coming down a ramp. Get the girl and
let’s go!”

But Paula was already coming toward
them, blinking in the glare. “Who’s that?
Carver? I—”

Brown gripped her arm. “There’s no
time to talk now, Paula. We’re in a jam.
Keep your mouth shut and come along.
Garth, can you get us back to that secret
passage ?”

“Maybe. It’ll be blind luck if we make
it. Turn your lamps out and link hands.
Here.” He felt Paula’s firm, warm palm
hard against his, and remembrance of
Moira was suddenly unexpectedly painful.
He had not seen an Earthgirl for years. . . .

What of it, now? Garth moved cat-
footedly forward, leading the others. He
went fast. Once or twice he clicked on
his light briefly. They could hear the noise
of the search-party now, and a few times,
could see distant lights.

“If they find that open panel — ” Brown
whispered.

“Keep quiet.”

Garth pressed them back into an alcove
as footsteps grew louder. Luck stayed
with them. The searchers turned off at
another passage. After that —

It was like a nightmare, a blind, stum-
bling race through the blackness of Chahnn,
with menace hiding everywhere. Garth’s
hand was slippery with perspiration against
Paula’s by the time he stopped, his light
clicking on and off again almost instantly.

“This is it,” he said. “The panel’s shut.”

“Good. Sampson must have had sense
enough to close it. Unless — ”

Garth found the spring and pressed it.
He flashed his light into the darkness, to
see the familiar faces of Brown’s men star-
ing at him. The Captain thrust him for-
ward. Paula was instantly beside him,
and then Brown himself was through the
oval gap.

“They’re coming,” he murmured. “How
in hell does this work?”

“Here.” Garth didn’t use his light. Un-
der his deft fingers the panel slid back into
place, shutting off the noise of approach-
ing steps. He gasped a little with relief.

“Okay,” he said in a natural voice. “These
walls are sound-proof. We can use our
lights. We’ll have to.”

“What happened?” Paula’s voice said.
“You said we were in a jam, Carver.
Well ?”

“We’ll talk as we go. Garth, you first.
Paula, stay with me. Sampson, bring up
the rear, will you?”

G ARTH obediently set out down the
sloping tunnel, scarcely listening to
Brown’s explanation. There were side
branches to the passage here and there.
He had to use his memory, which seemed
less accurate than he remembered. Once
he almost blundered, but caught himself
in time.

Brown said, “Garth, we’ve got thirty
miles of tunnel and twenty more above
ground till we hit the Forest. Right? This
is rough going. We won’t get out of here
till daylight. So we’d better camp in the pas-
sage, at the other end, till tomorrow night.”

“We don’t have to do that,” Garth
grunted. “This isn’t Earth. Jupiter won’t
rise for thirteen hours.”

16 PLANET

“The men have heavy packs.” Brown
shifted his own big one uncomfortably.
“Fifty miles is quite a way. Still, the
quicker we reach the Forest, the safer we’ll
be.”

“There’s a river.” Garth’s voice was
doubtful. “We might use that.”

“Would it help?”

“Yeah. But it’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Spouts. Geysers. The water’s apt to
explode under you any time. And there are
big lizards — ”

“Would it take long to make a raft?”

Garth shook his head. "Lato-trees are
better than balsa, and they grow on the
banks. Plenty of vines, too. But — ”

“We’ll do that, then,” Brown said de-
cisively. “Speed it up. We’ve got thirteen
hours. We can make it, all right.”

Garth didn’t answer.

After that it was pure monotony, a dull
driving march through a bare tunnel, up
slopes and down them, till leg muscles were
aching with fatigue. Garth dropped into
a state of tired apathy. He had no pack to
carry, but nevertheless his liquor-soaked
body rebelled at the unaccustomed exertion.
But he knew that each step brought him
closer to his goal.

The thoughts swung monotonously
through his brain. Doc Willard. The
notebook. The cure. The Plague. Maybe
— maybe — maybe!

If he got through — if he found the note-
book — if it had the cure — that was what
he wanted, of course.

But suppose he also found the skeleton
of Doc Willard on an altar, with a knife-
hilt protruding from the ribs?

He couldn’t have killed Doc consciously.
That was unthinkable. Yet the damnable
influence of the Noctoli pollen did odd
things to a man’s mind.

Doc Willard — Moira — the Silver
Plague —

Half asleep, aching with exhaustion, he
slogged ahead, moving like an automaton.
And, whenever he slowed his pace, Brown’s
sharp voice urged him on faster.

Grudgingly the Captain allowed them
rest periods. But by the time they reached
the tunnel’s end the men were panting and
sweating, and both Paula and Garth were
near exhaustion. Thirty miles at a fast

STORIES

pace, with only occasional rests, is wearing
work.

T HEY emerged from the passage to
find themselves on the slope of a rocky
hillock. Low ridges rose around them, sil-
houetted in triple-moonlight. A whitish
haze hung close to the ground, filling the
hollows like shining water.

Instinctively Brown looked up. A me-
teor, drawn by the immense gravity of
Jupiter, flamed across the sky — that was
all. And that was a familiar enough sight.

Garth, reeling with fatigue, nodded.
“River — down there. Half a mile. The
fog’s thicker — ”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

This lap of the journey was nearly the
hardest. But the low roar of the river
steadily grew louder as they stumbled on,
the luminous mist lapping their ankles, their
knees, their waists. It closed above their
heads, so that they moved in a ghostlike,
shadowless world in which the very air
seemed dimly lighted.

Trees were visible. Garth, almost spent,
searched for a shelving beach, found it,
and dropped in a limp heap. He saw Paula
sink down beside him. The men threw off
their heavy packs with relief.

Brown — the man was made of rawhide
and steel! — said, “I’ll need help to make a
raft. The boys that feel tired can keep
their eyes open for pursuit planes. I don’t
think the Commander would send out truck-
cats at night, but he’ll use searching planes.”

“They can’t see us in this fog,” Paula
said faintly.

“They could hear us, with their motors
muffled. So we’ll work fast. Garth!”
“Yeah. What?”

“What trees do we want?”

Garth pointed. "Lata. Like that one,
over there. They’re easy to cut down, and
they float. You’ll find tough vines all
around here.” He forced the words out
with an effort. Brown mustered eight of his
men, including the red-haired Sampson, and
led them away. The sound of ringing axes
presently drifted back.

Two others had been stationed on hil-
locks, above the low-lying fog, to watch for
planes. Garth, alone with Paula, was al-
most too tired to be conscious of her pres-
ence. He heard her voice.

“Cigaret?”

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OYE 17

“Thanks. . . Garth took one.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

“So am I,” Garth grunted. He could
feel her eyes on him. He drew the smoke
deep into his lungs, exhaling luxuriously.

“Got a gun?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh — things come out of the river some-
times. Hunting water-lizards, carnivorous.
You learn to sleep with one eye open on
Ganymede.”

“It’s a funny world,” Paula acknowl-
edged. “Once it was highly civilized. Now
it’s gone back to savagery.”

“Conditions are bad here. Too vigorous.
Jupiter gives light but not much heat. Ani-
mals and plants have to be tough to sur-
vive. This is summer-season, but it’s
plenty cold.”

“How much do you know about the
Zarno?” she asked abruptly.

Garth blinked. “Not much. Why?”

“Not many people have ever seen them.
I’m wondering. I managed to translate
some inscriptions from Chahnn. . . . The
Zarno aren’t human, are they?”

Garth didn’t answer. Paula went on.

“The Ancients knew them, though. They
tried to educate them — like Rome colonizing
savage races. That’s probably why the
Zarno are supposed to speak the Ancient
Tongue.”

“They do.”

“And then the Ancients died out — some-
how. The Zarno were left. They became
barbarous again. I wish I knew what they
were like. Natives who’ve seen them don’t
seem able to describe the creatures. They
wear shining armor, don’t they?”

G ARTH closed his eyes, trying to re-
member. A vague, dim picture was
growing in his mind — man-like figures that
glowed, faces that were craggy, hideous
creatures. . . .

“I’ve seen them,” he said, “but I’ve for-
gotten. The Noctoli poison — it wrecked
my memory.”

“You don’t recall anything?”

“I — ” Garth rubbed his forehead. “Not
human — no. Creatures like living statues,
shining and moving ... I don’t know.”

“Silicate life?” Paula theorized thought-
fully. “It’s possible. And it might evolve
on a planet where conditions are so tough

2 — Planet Stories— Winter

for survival. Such creatures wouldn’t be
affected by the Noctoli pollen, either, would
they?”

“No. Or they’ve built up resistance.
The virus is active only in daylight, when
the flowers are open. I don’t know why.
Before we go too far into the Black Forest
I’ll have to give everyone antitoxin shots —
everyone but me. The pollen doesn’t work
on me any more.”

They were silent, resting. It seemed
only a moment before Brown appeared,
announcing that the raft was ready.

“It’s a makeshift job, but it’s strong,”
he said. “Listen-, Garth, what about the
planes spotting us on the river? We’ll be
an easy target.”

“They wouldn’t fire on us?”

“No. But they’d use sleep-gas, and nab
us when we drifted ashore. We dcfri’t want
that.”

Garth rose, his muscles aching. “It’s a
chance. Most of the time there’ll be fog on
the river. That’ll help.” He found his
medical kit and shouldered it. “I’m ready.”

The men were already on the raft, a big
platform of light, tough lata-logs bound to-
gether by vines. Garth took his place near
the pile of equipment in the center. “Keep
to midstream,” he cautioned. “Watch for
bubbles breaking ahead. Swing wide of
those. Waterspouts.”

The raft slid out from the bank, long
poles guiding it. Water washed aboard
and slipped away as the platform found its
balance. Presently they were drifting down-
stream in the dimly-lighted fog, the black
river murmuring quietly beneath them.

Garth kept his gaze ahead. It was hard
to see in the faint, filtered light of the
moons, but a ray-lamp would have been
betraying to any planes that might ba
searching above.

“Swing left. Hard,” he called.

The men obeyed. Oily bubbles were
breaking the surface. As the raft moved
toward the bank, a sudden geyser burst up
from the river, a spouting torrent that
tipped the platform dangerously and show-
ered its occupants with icy spray.

Garth met Brown’s eyes. “See what I
mean?” he remarked.

“Yeah. Still, if that’s all—”

The river flowed fast. Once or
twice the plated back of a giant saurian
was visible, but the water-reptiles did not

18 PLANET

attack, made wary, perhaps, by the bulk of
the raft. There were other waterspouts,
but the men soon became adept at avoiding
them.

Sometimes they drifted through fog,
sometimes the mists were dissipated by
winds, though not often. During one of
the latter periods a faint droning drifted
down from above. It was the worst pos-
sible timing, for the two larger moons were
directly overhead, blazing down on the
river. The stub-winged shape of a plane
loomed against the starry sky.

Brown said sharply, “Drop flat. Don’t
move.” He forced Garth and Paula down.
“No, don’t look up. They’d see our faces.”

“They can’t miss us,” Sampson muttered.

“There’s fog ahead.”

The sound of the plane’s motors grew
louder. Abruptly there was a splash. An-
other. Something shattered on the raft.

“Hold your breath!” Brown snapped.

Garth tried to obey. A stinging ache
had crept into his nostrils. His lungs be-
gan to hurt. The plane had spotted them —
that was obvious. Sleep-gas works fast.

Another soft crash. Garth scarcely heard
it. He saw a stubby, cruciform shadow
sweep over the raft, as the plane swooped,
and then the wall of silvery fog was loom-
ing up ahead. Paula gave a little gasp.
Her body collapsed against him.

The fire in Garth’s chest was blazing
agony. Despite himself, he let breath rush
into his lungs.

After that, complete blackness and obli-
vion.

IV

G ARTH woke in reddish, dim twilight
Instantly he knew where he was,
even before he sat up and saw the black
boles of immense trees rising like pillars
around him. The Forest!

“About time,” Captain Brown’s toneless
voice said. “That sleep-gas put you under
for hours.”

Garth rose, glancing around. They were
camped in a little clearing among the gi-
gantic trees, and some of the men were
heating their rations over radiolite stove-
kits. From above, the crimson light fil-
tered vaguely from a leafy roof incredibly
far. The trees of the Black Forest were
taller than California sequoias, and Jupiter-

STOR1ES

light reached the ground faintly, through
the ceiling of red leaves that roofed the
jungle. Paula, Garth saw, was lying with
her eyes closed not far away.

“She all right?”

“Sure,” Brown said. “Resting is all.
We got away from Benson’s plane — hit that
fog-bank just in time. You’d passed out,
so I took a chance and kept going. After
we reached the Forest, I landed the raft
and headed inland a bit. So here we are.”

Garth nodded. “That was wise. The
river goes underground a half mile further.
Any — accidents ?”

Brown looked at him oddly. “This might
be Yosemite, for all the danger I’ve seen so
far. It’s a picnic.”

“That,” Garth said, “is just why it’s so
bad. You don’t see the trouble till after
it’s happened.” He didn’t explain. “Where’s
my kit ?”

“Here. Why?”

“Before we go any further, we’ll need
shots. Antitoxin against the Noctoli pol-
len. The flowers don’t grow on the edges
of the Forest, but the wind carries their
poison quite a ways sometimes.” Garth
rummaged in his kit, found sealed vials and
a hypo, and carefully sterilized everything
over a radiolite stove he commandeered
from one of the men. After that, he ad-
ministered the antivirus, first to Paula and
last of all to Brown. He took none him-
self ; he had acquired a natural immunity
to the pollen.

There was barely enough to go around.
Brown’s shot was slightly less than the
regular dosage, which vaguely worried
Garth. But the Captain, annoyed by the
delay, was anxious to talk about immediate
plans.

“Benson might land at the edge of the
Forest and come after us a mile or so.
Not further. But we’d better start mov-
ing.” He led Garth over to where Paula
sat. “It’s time for you to see the map.”

The girl nodded in agreement. She took
out a folded flex-paper and extended it.
Garth squinted down in the red twilight.

“Map?”

“More like a treasure hunt,” Paula ex-
plained. “There’s a series of guide-points,
you see. So far we’re okay — narva means
west, in the Ancient Tongue, doesn’t it?”

“Narva.” Garth gave the word a slightly
different pronunciation. “Yeah. Well — •

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS ONE 19

three sallags north-west to the Mouths of
the Waters Below — ”

“Mouths of the Singing Below, I made
it.”

Garth shook his head. “I can’t read the
stuff. I just know the spoken language.
Read the whole thing out loud, so I can get
it.”

Paula obeyed. Her pronunciation made
some words unfamiliar to Garth, but by
experiment he found what was meant.

“Uh-huh. A scdlag is less than three
miles, as far as I can judge. I think I know
the place. It’s a hill honeycombed with lit-
tle caves. You can hear water running un-
derneath it.”

“That fits,” the girl agreed. “This won’t
be so hard, after all.”

Garth grunted. He turned to Brown.

“I want a gun. And a knife. I’ll need
both.”

“Sampson !”

The red-haired man approached, squint-
ing. “Yeah?”

“Rustle up a knife and gun for Garth.”

“Check.”

Paula was staring at Garth. “You ex-
pect trouble, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She made a gesture. “This all seems so
peaceful — ”

((T ISTEN,” Garth said, “the Black
JL- / Forest is the worst death-trap in the
System. Here’s why. The struggle for
existence is plenty tough here. Brute
strength isn’t enough, nor agility. A tiger
or a deer wouldn’t last long here. In the
Forest, the survival of the fittest means the
plant or animal that can get the most food.
That sort of thing has been going on here
for a million years. The beasts developed
super-quick reactions. They could smell
danger a mile away. So they had to have
strength, agility, and something else — to
get close to their prey.”

Brown stared. “What?”

“Invisibility. Or its equivalent. Ever
heard of protective coloration? Camou-
flage? Well, the creatures of the Forest
are the most perfect camouflage experts
that exist. They don’t simply trick your
eyes, either. They trick the other senses.
If you smell perfume, take it easy, or
you’ll find yourself asleep, while your head’s
being chewed off by a lizard that looks as

nasty as it smells good. If you see a path
and it feels solid, don’t walk too far on it.
Things have made that path. A carnivorous
moss that feels exactly like smooth dirt
underfoot — till their digestive juices start
working. If you hear me yelling your name,
take it easy. There are birds like harpies
here that imitate sounds the way parrots
do.”

Garth’s grin was tight. “You’ll find out.
It’s camouflage carried to the last degree,
for offense and defense. I know the Forest
pretty well ; you don’t. You haven’t devel-
oped a sort of sixth sense — an instinct —
that tells you when something smells bad,
even though it looks like a six-course
dinner.”

“All right,” the Captain said. “This is
your territory, not mine. It’s up to you.”

It was. Garth decided later as he led the
way through the black columns of the trees,
very much up to him. Brown and the
others were tough, hard fighters, but they
didn’t know the subtleties of this hell-hole,
where death lurked everywhere disguised.
He had got a drink from Sampson and his
nerves were less jagged, but physical ex-
haustion still gripped him. He’d been on
the skids for a long time, and was in rot-
ten bad shape. But if the girl could stand
it, he could.

It was warmer in the Forest; the trees
seemed to exhale heat and moisture, and
there was no snow on the ground. Great
ebony pillars of giant trees, rising hundreds
of feet into the air, made the place a laby-
rinth. And the deceptive reddish twilight
made walking difficult, even to Garth’s
trained senses.

There was trouble, though. When a gor-
geously-colored butterfly, flame-red and
green, fluttered down toward Paula, Garth
hastily slapped at the insect with a thick
leaf he was carrying. “Watch out for those,”
he told the girl, nodding toward the crushed
body. “They’re poisonous. Bad medicine.”

And once, as Brown was about to seat
himself on a rounded grayish boulder,
Garth whirled the man away just in time. A
hole in the rock gaped open, and a pair of
fanged mandibles snapped out, clicking to-
gether viciously. Garth put a bullet in the
thing. It heaved itself up on spidery legs,
revealing that the “rock” was a carapace
covering an insect-like body. And it took
a long time to die.

20 PLANET

There were other, similar incidents.
They had a bad effect on the men, even
Sampson. The crew Brown had picked was
tough, but the Black Forest was like dis-
tilled poison. It was easier to face a charg-
ing rhino than to travel through this ebony
jungle where silent, secret death lurked
concealed, in a diabolic masquerade.

That was the first day. The second was
worse. The trees were thicker, and some-
times it was necessary to use machete-
blades to hew through the tangled under-
growth.

NOTHER DAY — and another — and
another, following the clues on Paula’s
cipher map. They found the first guide-
post, the hill honeycombed with caves, and
from there went on to the east, camping
at the edge of a ravine that dropped away
into unplumbed darkness.

Camouflage-moss grew here, looking de-
ceptively like solid ground. One of the
men ventured too close to the edge of
the cleft, and the moss crumbled beneath
him, dropping him into a nest of the roots
— twining, writhing cannibalistic serpents
with sucker-disks that drank blood thirstily.

They got him out in time, luckily. But
the men’s nerves were jolted.

After that, day after day, constant alert-
ness was vital. The party walked with guns
and knives in their hands. Their footsteps
rang hollow in the dead, empty silence of
the Forest. . . .

It was only Garth’s knowledge of the
dark wilderness that got them through to
the interior. After a week, he was further
in than he had ever penetrated before, ex-
cept when he had crashed the air-car with
Doc Willard five years ago.

But they were getting closer — nearer!
More and more often Garth remembered
the black notebook that might hold the
cure for the Silver Plague. For some in-
definable reason he had come to feel that
Paula’s goal was also his.

It was logical enough. They were search-
ing for a lost treasure-house of the Ancient
Race, guarded, perhaps, by the Zamo. And
Garth was certain that, during that period
of partial amnesia, he and Willard had been
captives of the Zarno. He had' been
drugged with the Noctoli poison by day, but
at night he had wakened in a bare cell with
his friend — a cell with walls of metal, he

STORIES

recalled. It had been windowless. Lighted
by a faint glow from one comer.

It checked. A ruin, once built by the
Ancients, now inhabited by the Zarno.

If he could find that notebook —

He always stopped there. He knew what
he might also discover — the skeleton of
Willard, stretched on an altar. That pic-
ture always made his stomach go cold and
tight.

That night Brown complained of a split-
ting headache. They camped near a stream,
and Garth accompanied the Captain down
to the bank, with canvas pails. Jupiter was
invisible — they had not seen the sky for a
week — but the red light was fading.

“Not too close,” Garth cautioned. “Let
me test it first.”

Brown stared at him. “What now?
I’m getting to expect anything here.” The
man’s expressionless face showed signs of
strain and exhaustion. He had no nerves,
apparently, but the gruelling journey had
told on him nevertheless.

Garth used his knife to cut down a sap-
ling. He impaled a leaf on its point and
extended it gingerly over the dark water.
After a moment he felt a shock like a
striking fish, and the pole was nearly
wrenched from his hands. And he wrestled
with it, Brown’s hands gripped the sapling.

“What the devil ! Garth — ”

“Let it go. I was only testing, anyway.”
The pole was dragged into the water, where
it thrashed about violently for a few mo-
ments.

“What is it?”

G ARTH was searching through the un-
derbrush for something. “Water-
snakes. Big ones — perfectly transparent.
They wait for some animal to come along
and take a drink. Then — bang 1” He
nodded. “Here we are. We’ll find a lot of
the Noctoli flowers from now on.”

He brought out a bloom nearly a foot in
diameter, with leaves of pulpy, glossy black,
a thick powdering of silver in its cup. “This
is Noctoli, Captain. Looks harmless, doesn’t
it?”

“Yeah.” Brown rubbed his forehead.
“The pollen gives you amnesia?”

“In the daytime, when it’s active. It’s
phototropic — needs light. Jupiter can’t
have set yet, so this ought to work.” Garth
found another pole, speared the flower on

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OWE 21

its tip, and extended the blossom over the
water. He shook the silver dust into the
stream.

“It works fast. The snakes will be para-
lyzed in a few seconds. The current car-
ries off the pollen, we dip up the water we
need — and that’s that.”

Paula appeared through the bushes,
glancing around warily. In the last week
everyone had learned to be alert always.
Lines of fatigue showed on her pale face.
Red-gold hair was plastered damply on her
forehead.

“Carver—”

“What’s up?”

She glanced at Garth. “The men. Samp-
son’s talking to them.”

Brown’s rat-trap mouth clamped tight.
“That so? Sampson shoots off his mouth
too much. What’s the angle?”

“I think they want to go back.”

Garth, dipping up water in the canvas
buckets, said, “We’ve only three more days
to go, unless we run into bad country.”

“I know. But — they’re armed.”

“I’ll talk to ’em,” Brown said quietly.
He lifted two of the pails and started up
the path, Paula and Brown trailing him.
Presently they reached the clearing where
camp had been made.

The men weren’t cooking. Instead, they
were gathered in a knot around Sampson,
whose blazing red hair stood up like a bea-
con. Brown put down his burden and
walked toward them.

They broke up at sight of him, but didn’t
scatter. Sampson’s hand crept imperceptibly
toward his holster.

“Trouble?” Brown asked.

Sampson squinted at him. “No trouble.
Except we didn’t know the Forest would
be as bad as it is.”

“So you want to go back ?”

“You can’t blame us for that,” Sampson
said, hunching his heavy shoulders. “It’s
only dumb luck that’s kept us alive so far.
We didn’t bargain for this, Captain.”

“I told you what to expect.”

“All you said was that it’d be dangerous.
None of us knew the Forest. Those damn
bloodsucker plants are the worst. They
reach out at a guy everywhere he turns.
And the other things — we can’t get through,
Captain ! You ought to be able to see that
yourself !”

“Nobody’s been killed so far.”

“Blind luck. And Garth, too. He knows
this country. If we didn’t have him, we
wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

“We’ve got him,” Brown said crisply.
“So we’re going on. Only three more days,
anyhow. That’s enough. Start cooking
your rations.” He turned his back on
Sampson and walked away. The red-haired
giant hesitated, scowling. Finally he
shrugged and glanced around at the others.

That broke the tension. One by one the
men scattered to prepare food.

Only Garth was gnawed by a persistent,
deep-rooted fear. He didn’t admit it, even
to himself. But he watched Brown closely
that night, and finally unpacked his medical
kit and carefully searched it for something
he knew wasn’t there.

He was dreading the next morning.

V

S LOW reddish dawn brightened over the
Forest. Garth felt someone shaking
him. He grunted, stirred, and opened his
eyes to see Paula’s white face, and, behind
her, Sampson.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?” He scrambled
out of his blankets, blinking. The girl, pale
to the lips, pointed toward a recumbent
figure.

“Carver. Captain Brown. He’s — I don’t
know !”

Sampson said gruffly, “Looks like he’s
dead. The men on guard duty said he didn’t
move once all night.”

Icy bands constricted suddenly around
Garth’s heart. Without answering he got
his kit and went over to examine Brown.
The man lay motionless, his breathing nor-
mal, but a deep flush on his brown cheeks.

“It isn’t the Plague, is it?” Sampson
asked, his voice not quite under control.

Garth shook his head. “Hell, no ! It’s — ”
He hesitated.

Paula caught his arm. “What? Some
insect poisoned him — one of those butter-
fly-things ?”

Garth carefully repacked his kit. He
didn’t look up.

“He’s got a dose of the Noctoli pollen.
That’s all. It’s not fatal. He’ll come out
of it after he leaves the Forest, or afte * he
builds up immunity.”

“How long would that take?”

“A month or more.”

22 PLAN ET

Garth bent over the apparently sleeping
man. “Get up, Brown,” he said insistently.
“Hear me? Get up?”

The Captain stirred. His eyes opened,
blank and unseeing. He drew himself from
his blankets and rose, looking straight
ahead. Paula shrank back with a little
gasp. There was a flurry of movement
among the men in the background.

“He’ll be all right tonight. The poison
only works in the daytime — I’ve told you
that.”

“We can’t march at night,” Paula said.
“Not— here!”

“I know. It’s impossible. Our lights
would attract the butterflies — and plenty of
other things.”

Sampson whirled on the others. “Pack
your equipment! We’re getting out of here,
fast !”

They hurried to obey. Paula got in front
of Sampson as he turned, and the giant
stopped, blinking at her.

“You can’t leave the Captain here,
Sampson.”

“We’ll carry him, then. But we’re get-
ting out.”

Garth moved to Paula’s side.. “You won’t
need a litter. He can walk. Noctoli poison
works like hypnotism. You’re semi-con-
scious, but your will’s in abeyance. If any-
one tells Brown to follow us, he’ll do it.”

Paula was biting her lip. “We can’t go
back now. We’ve only three days to go.”

“Look,” Sampson said grimly, “why in
hell should we commit suicide? Suppose
we 'head on for three days. We reach this
lost city of yours, or whatever it is. What
then? We’re in the middle of the Black
Forest. Another thirteen days to get out!
It’s too much of a gamble. We’re leaving
now, and you can come along or stay here
— suit yourself !” He turned away.

L EFT ALONE, Paula looked helplessly
from the motionless, staring figure of
Brown to Garth.

“Carver!”

He didn’t move. Garth grinned wryly.
“He’ll obey commands, that’s all. He
won’t wake up till tonight.”

Paula clenched her hands. “We’ve got
to go on! We’ve got to! If we go back
now — ”

“Commander Benson will clap us in the
brig, eh?”

STORIES

She looked at him angrily. “It isn’t only
that. We’d lose our chance. Y ou were
right. Garth — we’re after the power-source
of the Ancients. The secret’s hidden here,
in the Black Forest. That cipher from
Chahnn proved that — to me, anyway. Earth
needs power, more than you can imagine.
Without it, civilization will collapse — soon,
too.”

“Suppose we go on,” Garth said slowly.
“I didn’t tell you this, but the reason the
poison hit Brown was because my anti-
toxin was too old. He had a short dose,
too. The other men — well, they’ll go under
themselves in a day or so. You, too.”

Blue smudges showed under the girl’s
eyes. “Oh,” she said after a moment. “So
it’s like that.”

“Just like that.”

Paula’s stubborn chin tilted up. “I don’t
care — there’s still a way. We’ll be all right
at night, you said. Well, we’ll do our
traveling and fighting by night.”

“Fighting ?”

“The Zarno. Garth, we’ve got to do it,
somehow. Once we find that power-source,
we can use it! There’ll be weapons the
Ancients left, I’m sure of it. The murals
at Chahnn showed they had weapons, strong
enough to conquer the Zarno. If we can
get those — ”

“You’re crazy,” Garth said. “Plain crazy.
What the hell do you expect me to do about
it? Sampson would knock my block off
if I tried to stop him now.”

But he was thinking: we’re losing more
than a chance to find the Ancient’s power-
source. I’m losing my chance to find the
cure for the Silver Plague.

“No,” he said stubornly.

Paula’s lip curled. “I should have known
better than to ask you for help. I’ll handle
this myself.” She unholstered her gun.

Garth looked at her. She’d fail. She
couldn’t handle these ten hard-shelled fight-
ers, headed by Sampson. She’d fail. And,
in the end, she’d go back to Earth, in the
brig, back to the certain death of the Silver
Plague. Oh, it might miss her, of course.
But it might not.

Paula would die as Moira had done,
years ago.

Garth shrugged and slapped the girl’s
weapon down. “Stay out of this,” he
commanded, and turned away, walking
across the clearing to where Sampson and

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OISE 23

the others were shouldering their kits.

The red-haired giant looked up at Garth’s
approach. “Step it up,” he said. “We’re
in a hury.”

“I’m not going.”

Sampson’s furry brows drew together.
“The hell you’re not. We need you 1”

There was a band of ice around Garth’s
middle. “I know that. You can’t get
through without me. You’ll never get out
of the Forest alive. That’s tough. Paula
and I are going ahead, with Captain Brown.
We’re finishing what we started.”

“You lousy so-and-so!” Sampson roared.
His big hand reached out, clutching. Garth
stepped back, drawing his pistol.

“Take it easy,” he said under his breath.
But there was a gun in Sampson’s hand
now. Behind the giant, the other men
stirred angrily.

“You’re coming with us!”

“Not alive. I won’t be much good to
you dead, will I ?”

After a moment Sampson re-holstered
his gun. He looked around at the others.

Someone said. “We can get along with-
out that son.”

Sampson growled at him. “Shut up.
We can’t. You’d have been sucked dry by
that spider-thing yesterday if Garth hadn’t
seen it in time. He knows where to walk
in this hell-hole.”

Garth didn’t say anything. He waited,
holding his gun with casual lightness.

Sampson glared. “What do you want,
then ?”

“I want you to keep going — finish what
you started.”

“Then what?”

“We may find weapons — and other
things.”

“Suppose we don’t?”

“Then we’ll come back. I got you in
here, and I’m the only man on Ganymede
who can get you out.”

Sampson’s eyes narrowed. “Suppose we
say yes. You can’t keep a gun on us all
the time. We might jump you. There are
ways of making a man do things he doesn’t
want to do.”

“Sure,” Garth admitted, “you could tor-
ture me. Only that wouldn’t help.”

Sampson’s gaze flicked past to the girl.
Garth said quickly. “That wouldn’t help
either. Here’s why. The antitoxin I gave
you was too old. It isn’t working the way

it ought. Captain Brown was the first man
to go under. But within three days, at the
latest, every damn one of you will have
Noctoli poison!”

Garth thought Sampson was going to
shoot him then and there. A yell went up
from the men.

Sampson’s lifted hand quieted them. The
giant was pale under his spaceburn.

“Is that straight?”

Garth nodded. “It’s on the beam. Yeah.
It’ll take you a week to get out of the
Forest, and you won’t last that long, even
if you force me to guide you. I don’t think
you can do that, anyway. But even if you
did — within three days you’ll be like the
Captain. Walking dead men ! You’ll be okay
at night, but you can’t travel at night. By
day you’ll be living statues, sitting in the
Forest waiting for the bloodsucker plants
to come along and drain your blood, wait-
ing for the poisonous butterflies to paralyze
you and lay their eggs under your skin,
waiting — you’ve seen what sort of things
live in the Forest. Every day you’ll be
helpless. You can’t run. Some night you’ll
wake up with your legs chewed off, or the
butterfly maggots eating you alive. Like
that? Well, that’s what you’ll get — and
I’m the only guy that can save you!”

T HE FACES of the men told Garth
that his shots had gone home. The
deadly menace of the forest, lurking always
in the background, had worked into their
nerves. Sampson’s big hands clenched.
“Damn you!” he snarled. “You can’t — ”
Garth went on quickly. “I’m handing
this to you straight. We’re in a spot, sure,
but we can get out of it. I can make more
antitoxin, but it’ll take a while. I can’t do
it while we’re traveling. I need equipment.
Here’s what I’m proposing — we all keep
going, the way we started. I’m immune
to the pollen. If we move fast, we’ll reach
the lost city, or whatever it is, before you
go under. Then I can start making anti-
toxin. We’ll have to trap some small ani-
mals and allow time for incubation. But
I’ll be able to make fresh shots and neutral-
ize the Noctoli pollen.”

“It’s too long a shot,” Sampson said.
“Okay,” Garth told him. “Suit yourself.
Play it my way, or commit suicide.” He
turned and walked toward Paula, who had
not moved from Brown’s side.

24 PLABiET

Her eyes were steady on his. “Thanks.
That was nice going — plenty nice, if you
pull it off.”

“It’s suicide either way,” Garth grunted.
He began packing Brown’s kit and his own.

Footsteps sounded. Garth didn’t turn.
He heard Sampson’s deep voice, hoarse
with repressed fear and rage.

“We’re playing it your way, Garth. God
help you if you make any boners!”

Sudden relief weakened Garth. He tried
not to show it, though he realized that his
hands were trembling.

“Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll march
in ten minutes. Get the men ready.”

Sampson muttered something and re-
treated. Garth slipped the pack on Brown’s
shoulders. The Captain, looking blankly
ahead, didn’t seem to notice.

“Keep your eye on him,” Garth told
Paula. “He’ll be between us. He’ll keep
marching till we tell him to stop. See ?”

She nodded, moistening her lips. “Y-yes.
Is — that — going to happen to all of us?”

Garth said nothing. There wasn’t any-
thing to say.

But he knew, as he led the party away
from the camp, how long a gamble he was
undertaking. There were so many chances
that he might fail ! The odds were plenty
tough — yet the stakes were equally high.

Had he known how difficult those odds
were, Garth might not have risked it. For
the Noctoli poison worked faster than he
had guessed.

Meantime he guided ten sullen, fearful
men, a walking corpse, and a girl deeper
into the unexplored heart of the Black For-
est. The Noctoli flowers breathed their
poison from the underbrush, deadly and
relentlessly.

VI

T HAT DAY they met a new enemy:

jet-black lizards, five feet long, that
clung to the black tree-boles, perfectly
camouflaged, till the party came close. Then
the reptiles flashed toward them, fanged
jaws gaping. Constant alertness was all
that saved them — that, and the blazing guns
that killed the monsters.

Presence of the lizards was no respite
from the other perils. The bloodsucker
plants were more numerous, and the camou-
flage-moss made deceptively inviting paths

STORIES

through the red gloom. By dark, everyone
was nearly exhausted, nerves worn to rags.
Garth knew it would not take much for the
men to explode into furious resentment
against him.

Luckily, an hour after they had made
camp. Captain Brown woke from his
drugged trance, perfectly normal. But it
took a while to make him understand what
had happened.

For the first time Garth saw Brown lose
his iron self-control, and then it was only
for a moment. A flash of stark horror
showed on the Captain’s lean, hard face, to
be gone instantly.

He lit a cigaret, his eyes brooding on
Paula and Garth. Briefly he glanced past
them to the men, preparing their rations.

“Uh-huh. Not so good. I suppose it’s
useless to think of traveling by night.”

“It’s impossible,” Garth told him.

“You can make more antitoxin?”

“Sure — but not here. It’s too dangerous.
We’ve been safe so far because we’ve
moved fast, camping at a different spot
every night. If we holed up, we’d have a
gang of monsters down on us in no time.”

Brown considered. “It’s a nasty busi-
ness, having my own body go back on me.
A bit of a shock. Well — ” He let smoke
drift from his nostrils. “Two more days
ahead of us, eh? Then we reach the lost
city.”

“If it is a city. We don’t even know
that.”

“But we do know there may be Zarno
around. We’ll have to arrive there soon
after dark, so I’ll be . . . conscious. If
there’s a fight, I want to be in on it. Why
the devil didn’t you test that antitoxin,
Garth?” His voice was harshly angry.

Garth didn’t answer. Brown had given
him the rush act, but he wasn’t making any
excuses.

Paula said, “This isn’t the best time to
quarrel. You’d better talk to the men,
Carver, so there’ll be no trouble tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.”

Even the rebellious Sampson was con-
vinced by Brown’s well-chosen remarks.

They slept uneasily, with guards replaced
every two hours, and the next day woke to
find Captain Brown once more sunk into
his Noctoli-trance. A few of the men com-
plained of headaches.

By mid-morning Paula succumbed to the

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS ONE 25

poison. Garth did not realize at first what
had happened. Then, turning, he saw the
girl’s blank face and wide eyes fixed
straight ahead as she marched along, and
knew that she was entranced by the Noctoli
till nightfall. The exercise of walking,
speeding metabolism, had hastened the ac-
tion of the virus.

They went on. An hour later another
man went under. Then another. By noon
only five men, including Garth and Samp-
son, were still conscious.

Their difficulties increased proportion-
ately. They had to be on guard every sec-
ond. The Noctoli victims walked quietly
in line, but they did not react to danger.
If the tentacles of a bloodsucker plant
flashed out, they wouldn’t try to escape.
Their instinct of self-preservation had
been dulled and blanketed.

The afternoon was pure hell. Garth,
Sampson, and one other man had to guard
and lead the rest. Their guns crashed in-
cessantly, it seemed.

When they camped at the onset of dark-
ness, Sampson and Garth alone remained.

T HE red-haired giant, swaying on his
feet, squinted at Garth, his face hag-
gard with exhaustion.

“Nice going,” he said sardonically, after
a time. “What now? Maybe we’d better
cut our throats.”

Garth managed a shaky grin. “We’re
still okay. And there’s only one more day
left. Tomorrow — we’ll make it then. We’ve
got to.”

Unwilling admiration showed in Samp-
son’s eyes. “You’re dead on your feet. I
don’t see how the hell you keep up this
pace. Anyhow — we can’t go back now.
That’s settled, anyway.”

“Yeah. The others will wake up after
a while. We’ll have to stay on guard till
then.”

They did, guns drawn, peering at the
silent depths of the Forest around them,
while the rest of the party lay motionless,
helpless against attack.

After a time Sampson spoke. Garth
could not see his face in the heavy gloom.
“What are you after, Garth?”

“Eh?”

“I had you ticketed wrong. A beach-
comber. . . . There must be something
plenty important where we’re going, or you

wouldn’t be so anxious to get there. What
is it? Treasure, of course, but — jewels?
Or what?”

Garth chuckled. “There may be. I don’t
know. Don’t care.”

“Hm-m.” Sampson was silent, baffled.
Garth’s mind swung back to that ever-pres-
ent question. Had he killed Doc Willard?
Very soon, now, he might know the
answer.

But that was important only to him. The
vital point was the black notebook Doc had
had with him.

After a time Captain Brown stirred and
sat up. Then the others. The men were
a little panicky, but the presence of Brown
and Sampson calmed them.

Garth, relieved of guard duty, had fallen
asleep almost instantly.

He woke at dawn. Red twilight filtered
down from above. The others were lying
motionless in their blankets. Sampson’s
big body was huddled at the base of a tree.

Wearily Garth got up and went over to
the giant. “Sampson!” he called. “Wake
up 1 We’ve got a job — ”

He stopped. Sampson’s eyes were open,
fixed and blank, and his dark cheeks had a
significant ruddy flush.

The Noctoli poison — !

Garth stepped back, white to the lips.
A sudden, horrible sense of loneliness
pressed down on him. In the jungle things
seemed to move, closing in menacingly.

He was alone now.

Alone — with twelve helpless companions
to guard!

Somehow — somehow! — he had to get
them through. One more day, and they
would be at their goal. They could not
stay here, that was certain.

Garth searched Sampson’s pack till he
found a half-empty whiskey bottle. He
poured the burning stuff down his throat,
though it rocked him back on his heels. But
he needed artificial stimulation ; it was the
only thing that could keep him going now.

It helped. Garth took Sampson’s gun
and stuck it in his belt. If his own jammed
or ran out of ammunition, today, it would
be unfortunate.

One more day.

One more day!

Somehow, he got Sampson, Brown
and the others lined up. They would
march when he gave the word. The hyp-

26 PLANET

notic trance of the Noctoli pollen had
turned them into robots.

Garth put Paula directly behind him.
The sight of her wan, drawn face made him
feel a little frightened, though not for him-
self. He was remembering Moira, who
had died on Earth years ago.

Eleven men and a girl — and he was the
only one who could save them.

Garth made sure that the packs were in
place on the men’s shoulders. He took an-
other drink, pulled out one of the guns, and
gave the command to march.

Like automatons the line followed him.

If the day before had been hell, this was
double-distilled hell.

Within an hour, Garth’s nerves were
scraped raw. He had to be constantly alert.
The wrenching strain of watching for
camouflaged menace made his eyes ache.
When movement came, he had to be ready.
Ready to squeeze the trigger. . . .

He had to have eyes in the back of his
head. For Sampson, at the tail of the pro-
cession, was as helpless as the others.

Liquor kept Garth going. Without it, he
would have collapsed. By noon he was
forced to call a halt, his eyes throbbing
with the strain. But even then he could
not relax. Danger waited everywhere.

He never remembered what happened
that afternoon. He must have acted auto-
matically, through blind instinct. But he
go them through, somehow. . . .

It was like awakening from deep sleep.
Garth was abruptly conscious that he was
marching forward, his head moving rhyth-
mically, his eyes searching the jungle. The
red twilight was almost gone.

He whirled, to see Paula directly behind
him, unharmed. The others were strung
out in single file — all of them, with Samp-
son’s red head at the end. None was
missing.

Garth shivered. His body was aching
like fire. A quick glance showed him that
his clothes were ribboned, his skin
scratched raw, a long slash along his ribs.
It had been treated with antiseptic, he saw,
though he did not remember administering
first aid, nor what had caused the wound.

What had wakened him? He peered
through the gloom, making out a dark bulk,
regular in outline, ahead and to his left.
A few paces further gave him the answer.
It was a building, of black stone or metal,

STORIES

no more than twelve feet high, and with an
archway gaping in the nearest side.

Somehow it struck a chord of memory.
They must be near their goal. No savages
had built this structure. The Ancient Race ?

The Zarno — they might be near by. It
would not do to encounter them now, while
the men were in their Noctoli trance. And
here, in the Forest, they were without
cover, at the mercy of the Zarno should
they appear.

Garth reconnoitered quietly, leading the
others, for he dared not leave them alone.
The black building seemed untenanted. He
could vaguely make out a flight of steps
leading down into darkness, and, more im-
portant than that, the threshold itself was
thick with dust and mould. The — temple
• — was empty.

Which made it a good place to hide.
Garth was beginning to realize he could not
keep going much longer, at least without
collapsing. But soon after dark the others
would recover from their trance.

He stepped warily across the threshold,
into the gloom of the temple. Simultane-
ously the flooring sank almost imperceptibly
beneath his feet, and a deep, brazen bell-
note boomed out, hushed with distance, as
though it came from underground.

Indecision held Garth motionless for a
moment. That clang was a signal of some
sort — a warning against trespassers? A
warning to whom ?

H E WAS answered quickly. A low
cry came, harsh and oddly familiar.
It was the first of many. Garth, hesitating
on the threshold, uncertain which way the
danger lay, instinctively reached out his
arm and dragged Paula close. She came
obediently to his side, her eyes seeing noth-
ing. The others — they stood like frozen
statues.

Something flashed amid the underbrush.
The scarlet tangle of vines and leaves was
torn aside, and a figure leaped into view.
A figure, man-like — yet not human!

At first glance it seemed to be a man in
armor, more than six feet tall, and pro-
portionately broad. Its body gleamed with
reflected light. Neckless, its head was a
hairless, shining ball whose only features
were two oval, jet-black eyes. They were
uncannily menacing.

A statue come to life ! For the creature’s

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OYE 27

body was obviously not flesh — it was hard,
rough and shiny as translucent glass. Sili-
cate life !

Sprung from a silicon chemical base, as
Earth life comes from carbon — but sen-
tient, intelligent, and dangerous!

Others like it raced into view, pausing as
they saw Garth and his companions. The
first stepped forward. He had no mouth,
but a circular diaphragm below and between
his eyes vibrated rapidly, forming recog-
nizable words.

“Al-khron ghanro ssel ’ri — ”

It was the Ancient Tongue, which Garth
had learned five years before, and never
forgotten. It came back to him easily now.
He was beginning to remember other
things, too. These creatures — he had seen
them before. The Zarno —

“We come in peace.” He raised one
hand, his nerves jolting, waiting for the
answer. Presently it came.

“You are not a god. The others with
you are not gods. We are the Zarno; we
destroy. We guard the house of the gods
till they return.”

Another of the silicate creatures pushed
forward. “Do you not know this being,
Kharn? Eight ystods ago he came here
with another like him. Do you remember ?”

Kharn nodded slowly. “That is true.
We did not slay them then, for we thought
they were messengers from the gods. They
pretended to be — we were not sure. This
one escaped. The other went into the
Darkness.”

The other? Doc Willard? Garth felt
his throat tighten.

“The — Darkness? What is that?”

“The place from which only the gods re-
turn,” Kharn said slowly.

Did he mean — death? Before Garth

could ask, the second Zarno spoke.

“They must be taken and sacrificed,
Kharn.”

Garth took out his gun. “Wait,” he said
sharply, as the Zarno moved forward. “We
have weapons. We can destroy you.”

“You do not speak the truth. Only the
gods can destroy us. Ages ago they came
here and built their temple and taught us to
be wise. When they left us, we stayed on,
to guard the sacred places.”

Garth’s mouth felt dry. “We are mes-

sengers from the gods — ” he declared.

“It is not true.” Kharn began to walk
forward. “Take them !”

Garth knew he had lost.

I T WAS like a nightmare, the steady, re-
lentless approach of the monstrous be-
ings. Garth held his gun leveled. His arm
tightened around Paula’s shoulders.

“Keep back,” he commanded, conscious
of the uselessness of the words.

Instead, Kharn and the others walked on.
The creature’s shining arm lifted, clamped
on Garth’s shoulder. He fired.

Kharn did not seem to feel the bullet,
though it had not missed. Garth squeezed
the trigger again. The pistol jolted against
his palm.

The Zarno were — invulnerable!

Garth fought, nevertheless. He could
see the silicate men lifting his companions
like sacks of meal, hoisting them to gleam-
ing shoulders, and carrying them, unresist-
ing, through the forest. Paula was torn
from his grasp. Cursing, he struck out at
Kharn’s impassive, inhuman face with the
revolver-butt. Useless! Nothing could
harm these creatures of living stone.

Ignoring his struggles, Kharn prisoned
Garth’s arms and lifted him. Helpless,
Garth was carried after the others. He
forced himself to relax. A fury of im-
potent rage flooded him.

He battled it down. Better wait. A
chance might come later; just now, there
was none. Wait —

Through the forest they went, a score of
the silicate creatures, striding like armored
giants in the darkening red glow. Not far.
A pillar of black metal loomed before them
soon, broken by an archway. Two of the
monsters guarded it. For a moment Garth
mistook the monolith for one of the ebony
trees; then he realized his error as they
crossed the threshold and began to descend
a spiral ramp.

Now there was light, a cool, silvery radi-
ance that seemed to come from the walls.
Kham’s footsteps thumped hollow, tire-
lessly. Sudden weakness made Garth dizzy.
He caught a glimpse of a well around
which the ramp wound, a pit dropping
away to the heart of a world, it seemed.

Utter exhaustion struck him like a physi-
cal blow.

28 PLANET

VII

H E REMEMBERED, dimly, what
happened after that. It was like a
series of fantastic visions, nightmare flashes
of memory. At the bottom of the spiral
was a cave, reminiscent of Chahnn and the
other cities of the Ancients Garth had seen.
Enigmatic machines loomed here and there.
Unlike Chahnn, this city was lighted with
the pale glow that came out of the walls
and high-domed ceilings.

Cavern after cavern — peopled with the
silicate creatures, filled with the dead ma-
chines of the Ancients! And, finally, an
immense cave, its floor slanting up to a
raised dais at one end. On the platform a
throne of black metal stood, and seated up-
on it was a gigantic four-armed robot,
larger than any Garth had ever seen before
— standing, it would have been twelve feet
tall, he judged.

Garth got only a glimpse of this. He
was carried on swiftly to a smaller cavern
where metal doors lined the walls. One of
these was unlocked. He, with the other
Earthmen, was carried within and dumped
unceremoniously on the floor. The Zarno
departed, clanging the door shut after them.
Then — silence.

Garth staggered to his feet, staring
around. The cell was oddly familiar. He
had been in it, or one like it, five years ago
with Doc Willard. The silvery light came
from the waif, and there was a grating in
the door. That was all.

He reached the grating and peered out.
Two Zarno were on guard not far away.
The lock — it might be possible to pick it,
Garth thought, but the silicate creatures
were invulnerable. So that would do no
good.

Captain Brown’s clipped voice said,
“Where the hell are we, Garth ?”

“Huh? Oh, you’re awake.” Garth
laughed harshly. “You should have waked
up half an hour ago. Not that it would
have done any good — ”

Brown stood up stiffly. “What d’you
mean? What’s happened?”

The others were waking now. For a few
moments the cell was a babble of questions.
One of the Zarno came briefly to the grill
in the door and looked in. Shocked quiet
greeted him.

STORIES

After he had gone, Garth took advantage
of the silence to say, “I’ll tell you what’s
been going on, and then I’m going to sleep.
I’ll go to sleep anyway, unless I talk fast.
I’m dead beat.”

Sampson squinted at the door. “Tough
customers. Shoot, Garth. I’ve got a hunch
we’re in a bad spot.”

“We are. Listen — ” Briefly Garth ex-
plained what had happened.

There were questions and counter-ques-
tions.

“You can speak their lingo, eh?”

“That won’t help, Brown.”

“They can’t be invulnerable.”

“They are — to our weapons. Silicate
life!”

“When will they — sacrifice us?” Paula
asked, a little shaken, though she tried not
to show it.

Garth shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe
I can talk ’em out of it. God knows. They
worship the gods — the Ancients, I suppose
— but they know we’re not gods. So that’s
that.”

“Well—”

T HEY talked inconclusively. Sampson
casually wandered over to the door,
found a twisted scrap of wire, and used it
on the lock. After a while he called softly
to the others.

“This thing’s a snap. It won’t keep us
in here.”

Garth came over. “There are guards.
It’s no use.”

One of the Zarno approached and peered
in through the grill.

“Kharn has said you will not be hungry
long. Tomorrow you will all die. You
eat, like the creatures of the forest, do you
not ?”

“What’s he saying?” Sampson muttered.
“Nothing important.” Garth switched
to the Ancient Tongue. “It will be dan-
gerous to kill us. We are messengers of
the gods.”

“We will believe that,” the Zarno said,
“when one of the gods tells us so.” He
nodded impassively and retreated.

Paula touched Garth’s arm. “Isn’t there
any way — ”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”
“There’s light here. There’s none in the
other cities of the Ancients. That means

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OKE 29

the power-source still works here. If we
can find it — ”

Garth couldn’t look at her, knowing they
were doomed to die the next day. He
shrugged, turned away, and found an
empty corner. Ignoring the others, he tried
to relax on the hard floor. His brain just
wasn’t working now. It was fagged out.
He had a vague hunch that there might be
a way out — but he was too exhausted to
follow it up now. A few hours’ sleep was
vital.

But he slept past dawn. When he awoke,
he saw the others lying motionless, their
eyes fixed in the blank stare of the Noctoli
trance.

Glancing at the chronometer on Brown’s
wrist, Garth figured swiftly. It was past
dawn. That meant there was little time
left in which to act — provided action was
possible. But sleep had refreshed him,
though his muscles still ached painfully.
He was beginning to remember what his
hunch had been.

When he and Doc Willard had been cap-
tives, there had been guards only at night.
During the long Ganymedean day, none
was necessary, for the Noctoli poison had
been active then. By day, the Zamo
thought, men of flesh were tranced and
helpless. Unless —

Garth moved quietly to the door.
Through the grill he saw the cave, empty
of life. There were no guards. He was
glad he had slept past dawn, so that the
Zarno were able to believe him entranced
like the others.

But what now? Escape? To where?
There was still power in the lost city ; per-
haps the weapons of the Ancients still ex-
isted. Weapons stronger than guns to con-
quer the Zarno! But, regardless of that,
it was necessary to find a hiding-place.
This was the day of sacrifice.

Ironic thought — a hiding-place in an un-
derground city teeming with the Zarno!

Garth shrugged. The door was locked,
he discovered, and it took time to find the
twisted wire Sampson had used. Even
then, Garth was unable to manipulate the
intricate tumblers. He scowled, chewing
his lip, and eying the wire. Sampson’s
skilled fingers were necessary.

He roused the red-haired giant and led
him to the door. Sampson looked straight
ahead, his eyes dull. He obeyed when

Garth spoke — but that was all. Was his
skill sufficiently instinctive to be used now ?

There was only one way to find out.
Garth put the wire in Sampson’s hand.
“Unlock the door.”

He had to repeat the command twice be-
fore Sampson understood. Then the big
man bent, fumbling with the lock, working
with agonizing slowness.

Hours seemed to drag past before Samp-
son straightened.

G ARTH tried the door. It opened.

The first step was accomplished, any-
how. The others would be more difficult.
He was unfamiliar with the underground
city. How the devil could he evade the
Zarno and find a hiding-place? Alone, he
would have a better chance. But he had
twelve companions to take with him.

He spoke to each of them. “Follow
me. You understand? Follow me till I
tell you to stop. Move as quietly as you
can.”

Then he led them out of the cell.

The city, as he speedily learned, was a
labyrinth. Luckily there were innumer-
able cross-passages. And all the cities of
the Ancients had been built along a similar
plan. Garth knew the layout of Chahnn,
and that helped him now. But there were
times when he had to move fast, and the
others walked as though striding through
water.

“Quick! In here! Fast!”

And they would follow him, into a side
tunnel, while the heavy, metallic foosteps
of the Zarno approached like the drums of
doom.

But there was no place to hide perma-
nently. Worst of all, a distant clanging
sounded presently, and Garth guessed what
that meant. The escape of the captives
had been discovered.

Gingerly he skirted the huge cave where
the dais was, glimpsing the giant robot in
the distance, and shepherding his charges
along a twisting corridor that led down.
But the footsteps were growing louder.
Garth was almost certain that they were
following.

He increased his pace, with wary glances
behind him. Unless he found a side
passage soon, the swift Zarno would
speedily overtake them.

“Faster ! Move faster !”

30 PLAMET

The Earthmen tried to obey. Like auto-
matons they ran, their eyes fixed and star-
ing, while the clamor of pursuit grew
louder. Looking back. Garth saw a flash
of shining movement. The Zarno!

“Faster 1”

There were no side tunnels. They came
out into a small cave, completely empty.
It was a cul-de-sac. Light was reflected
brightly from three walls.

The fourth wall was dead black — neither
rock nor stone. It was like a jet curtain,
blocking their path. Garth jerked to a
halt, knowing the utter hopelessness of
futility. They were trapped now.

The Zarno were pursuing, unmistakably.

Garth took out his useless gun. His
face was set in grim lines. What good
were bullets against the silicate creatures?

But waiting helplessly was far worse.
At least he could try to fight.

He had forgotten to command his
charges to halt. Glancing around, Garth
saw something that made his eyes widen in
incredulous amazement. Paula was walk-
ing toward the black curtain — the wall —

She stepped through it and vanished.

Brown followed her. Then another man.
And another.

Last of all, Sampson, disappearing like
a ghost through the blackness!

Heavy footsteps whirled Garth about.
Down the corridor he could see the flash-
ing gleams that heralded the Zarno. His
tight grin was a grimace.

“The hell with you, pals,” he said softly
— and turned again. He raced in pursuit
of the others.

Leaped through the dark curtain!

T HERE was an instant of grinding,
jolting shock that left him blind. He
staggered, caught himself, and saw that he
was in a passage that led toward a distant
brightness. Silhouetted against the glow
were the moving figures of his companions.

He sprinted after them. But he did
not overtake them till they had emerged
in a cavern unlike any he had seen before.
“Okay! Stop! Stop, that’s right.”
They halted, motionless. Garth looked
behind him, but there was no trace of the
Zarno.

This cavern was lighted like the others.
But there were fewer machines. Row after
row of the giant four-armed robots stood

STORIES

like an army on the dark-metal floor. The
walls were jeweled, thousands of pearly
disks studding them. A low humming
came from a machine nearby, a tripod
with lenses surmounting a square box.

Garth walked through it He hesitated,
glanced around again, and then peered
through the lenses.

A voice seemed to speak within his
brain.

“ — invoked the rule of silence. After
that, Genjaro Lo declared that space travel
was inevitable and might solve the natural
problems of our civilization — ”

It had spoken in the Ancient Topgue.
And, at the same time. Garth had seen a
picture of a huge, four-armed being with
a bulging, yet oddly symmetrical head,
standing on a rostrum addressing a multi-
tude —

“Ed!” The voice rang through the silent
cavern. “Ed Garth! You made it!”

Garth whirled. A man had emerged
from a cavern-mouth nearby, a short,
slight man with white hair and a lined,
tired face. He ran forward, his ragged
garments flapping, his eyes shining.

Garth said, in a voice like a prayer, “Doc
Willard. You’re alive!”

mn

W ILLARD gripped his friend’s hands.

“Alive, yes. If you can call it that.
I’ve been living for only one thing. I
knew you’d come back, with help, if you
got through. And you did!”

The cavern was spinning around Garth.
He braced himself, staring at the man.

“Doc! I’ve been going crazy for five
years. I thought I — I’d killed you.”
Willard stared. “Killed me? But — ”
“That altar!” The words tumbled out
of Garth’s mouth. “I couldn’t remember
much. That damned Noctoli poison — I
lost my memory. But I knew I’d tried to
knife you while you were stretched out on
an altar — ”

Sympathy showed in Willard’s eyes.
“Good Lord, Ed ! And you could remem-
ber only that? You must have gone
through hell.”

“I did. I didn’t know what — ”

“But we planned it. The whole thing.
A fake ceremony, to impress the Zarno
and give us a chance to escape. They

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OJVE 31

thought we might be messengers from their
gods — the Ancients — and we told ’em so,
after we’d learned their language. The
sacrifice — it was a fake, that’s all. And
it went through as we planned. You pre-
tended to stab me, and while the Zarno
were bowing and genuflecting, we got
away. At least you did. They recaptured

if

me.

Garth shook his head. “Tell me. I
don’t know, really.”

Willard glanced at the Earthmen, curi-
osity in his eyes. “You’ve a bit of explain-
ing to do yourself, Ed. Are they —
Noctoli?”

“Yeah. I worked out an antitoxin, but
it was stale.” Quickly Garth explained
what had happened.

“I see. Well— got a cigaret?” Willard
sucked the smoke luxuriously into his
lungs. “That’s good. Five years since
I had one of these. Sit down and let’s
talk. No chairs, but try the floor.”

“Okay. What happened to you?”

“Nothing much. When we staged our
fake ceremony — the Zarno are plenty reli-
gious — I headed for that little black tem-
ple in the forest. Know the place?”

“Yeah. That’s where they caught us.”

“Well, it leads to freedom. There’s an
underground tunnel that takes you out in
a camouflaged hangar. The Ancients had
antigravity. I found out later, and their
flying-boats were hidden there. They’re
still good, Ed. They still work. I’d have
got away if the Zarno hadn’t been right
on my heels.”

“So?”

Willard nodded. “The controls are easy.
A couple of push-buttons and a steering-
lever. I’d got a few feet off the ground
when a couple of Zarno jumped into the
boat with me. They heaved me out and
followed. The flying-boat went off to
Mars or somewhere, I suppose — it kept on
going straight up. But there are others.
Only I’ve never been able to get at them.
If I could have, I’d have headed for Ore-
town, pronto.”

Garth’s eyes were glowing. “If we
could reach that hangar, Doc, we could
escape — all of us.”

“Sure. Only we can’t. Too many
guards. It’s impossible to get out of this
city. I’ve tried often enough. The only
way I managed to survive was by entering

the Darkness.” His voice trailed away.

“That black wall?”

“It’s a vibration-barrier. None of the
Zarno can pass it. It shakes them to
pieces — destroys them. The Ancients made
it, I suppose, to guard their library.”
Willard extended his hand in a sweeping
gesture. “This is it. All the knowledge
of the Ancients — tremendous knowledge
— compiled here for reference. If we
could only get it out to the world!”

Garth remembered something. “Does
it mention their power-source?”

“Sure. I’ve had nothing to do for five
years but study the library. I could put
my finger on the wire-tape recording that
explains the process. It’s an intricate
business, but we could duplicate it on Earth
easily enough.”

Paula would be glad to know that, Garth
thought. The secret of the Ancients’
power, that could replace oil and coal — a
vital secret to Earth now.

W ILLARD was still talking. “I ran
when I heard you coming. I’d been
studying one of the recordings, but I
thought the Zarno might have got through
the barrier somehow. ... It doesn’t harm
humans, luckily, or the robots. I learned a
lot in five years.”

“How did you manage to keep alive?”

“I found food. The Ancients had
stocked up this place. Pills!” Willard
grimaced. “They kept me alive, and there
was a machine for making water out of the
air. But I’m hungry for a steak.”

Garth scowled. “Doc — one more thing.
You know what I mean?”

Willard sobered. “I get it, Ed. The
cure. Whether or not I — ”

“Whether or not you’ve found the cure
for the Silver Plague. It hasn’t been
checked yet. It’s still killing thousands on
Earth.”

“So. I wondered a lot about that. Well
— the answer is yes, Ed. I know the
answer.”

“The cure?”

“Yes. I worked it out, completely, with
the aid of the Ancients’ library. They
were studying it too, but they didn’t have
quite the right angle. However, they were
able to supply the missing data I needed.”
Willard took from his pocket a small note-

32 PLANE T

book. “I had five years to work on it. So
far, of course, it’s theoretical, but every-
thing checks. It’s the cure, all right.”

Somehow Garth didn’t feel much excite-
ment. Five years ago, he thought, that
notebook would have saved Moira’s life.
Now — well, it would still save life. It
would save Earth. But —

He shrugged. “Two good reasons to get
back to civilization. The cure, and the
secret of the power-source.”

Willard nodded. “The Ancients died of
the Silver Plague, indirectly. They tried
to escape by changing their bodies. The
library told me that.”

“Their bodies? How?”

“Well — you’ve seen the robots in Chahnn
and here. Originally they were the ser-
vants of the Ancients.”

“Intelligent ?”

“No — not in the way you mean. They
could be conditioned to perform certain
tasks, but usually they were controlled
telepathically by the Ancients, who wore
specialized helmet-traijsmitters for the pur-
pose. The robots had radioatomic brains
that reacted to telepathic commands. Then
when the Silver Plague struck, the
Ancients tried to escape by transplanting,
not their physical brains, but their minds.
I don’t quite know how it was done. But
the thought-patterns, the individual mental
matrix, of each Ancient was somehow im-
pressed on the radioatomic brain of a
robot. Their minds were put into the
robots’ brains — and controlled the metal
bodies. So they escaped the Plague. But
they died anyway. Human, intelligent
minds can’t be transplanted successfully
into artificial bodies that way. So — in a
hundred years — they were dead, all of
them.”

So that was the secret of the Ancients’
disappearance from Ganymede. They had
taken new bodies — and those bodies had
killed them through their sheer alienage.

Willard crushed out his cigaret-stub.
“All the knowledge of the Ancients at my
finger-tips, Ed. You can imagine what re-
search I’ve done!”

“I should have thought you’d have looked
for a weapon against the Zamo,” Garth
said practically. “The Ancients were able
to conquer them.”

“I did — first of all, after I’d learned
how to work the recording-machines. A

STORIES

certain ray will destroy them — a vibration-
ary beam that shakes them to pieces, dis-
rupts their molecular structure. The only
trouble is — ” Willard grinned sardonically.
“It takes a damn good machine shop to
build such a projector.”

“Oh. We couldn’t—”

“We couldn’t. The Ancients left plenty
of apparatus here, but not the right kind.
Mostly records, and a lot of robots. Sorry,
Ed, but unless you brought good weapons
with you, you’re stuck here with me.”

G ARTH looked around to where his
companions were standing motion-
less. “Yeah. Looks like it. Unless we
can break through to that hangar of anti-
gravity ships — ”

“We can’t. The city’s full of the Zarno,
day and night. And there are always
guards outside.”

Garth sighed. “The trouble is, unless
we get out, nothing can stop the Silver
Plague. Not to mention the fuel short-
age. Wait a minute. You said the Zarno
were superstitious — we tricked them once
with a fake ceremony. Couldn’t we try
that again?”

“I did,” Willard told them. “It didn’t
work. The Zarno know what human be-
ings are like now. Only the gods would
impress them — those robots who once
were their masters.”

Garth stopped breathing for a moment.
“There’s a way,” he said.

Willard looked at him. “I don’t think
so. When I saw you’d come back, I hoped
for a minute — but it’s no use. The Zarno
are invulnerable to any weapons we can
create here. We can’t get out of the city!”
“You said the gods would impress them.”
“The gods are dead — the Ancients.”
“Suppose one of them came back?”
Willard caught his breath. “What do
you mean?”

“Originally the robots were controlled
telepathically. Why can’t that work now —
for us?”

“Don’t you imagine I thought of that?
But it’s no use, without one of them hel-
met-transmitters. And there aren’t any.
. . Willard sucked in his breath. “Hold
on! I’d forgotten something. There’s
one transmitter left — just one. But it’s not
a portable.”

“Swell !”

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS OISE 33

“Wait a minute. Come over here.” The
older man led the way to a tripod-projector,
found a cylindrical black object, and
slipped it into place. “Look at this.”

Peering through the eye-pieces, Garth
recognized the great cavern with the dais
at one end. The scene shifted, showing the
gigantic twelve-foot robot sitting on its
throne, a solid block of black metal.

“Watch,” Willard said.

A voice spoke in Garth’s mind, in the
Ancient Tongue. “It was necessary to
impress the superstitious Zarno. Thus we
created this robot god and placed it on its
throne. Its radioatomic brain can be con-
trolled telepathically by means of a trans-
mitter concealed within the throne.”

The scene changed, showing the back of
the ebony block. A hand, inhuman, six-
fingered, came into view — the hand of an
Ancient. It touched a concealed spring,
and the throne’s back slid open, revealing a
compartment easily large enough to hold a
man.

“Here is the transmitter. It is placed
on the head and the will focused on issu-
ing telepathic commands to the robot god
on the throne.”

There was more, but now Garth watched
with only half his mind. He scarcely saw
the details o-f the ritual ceremony with
which the Ancients had impressed the
Zarno. When the vision vanished, he
swung about, a new light in his eyes.

“That’s it, Doc! That robot god’s go-
ing to come to life!”

W ILLARD FROWNED. “Um-m.

The gadget isn’t difficult to operate —
I’ve learned that much from the recordings.
You just think hard, that’s all. But — ”
“The god will come to life and summon
the Zarno — all of them. The rest of you
can escape while I’m keeping ’em busy.”

“Hold on!” the doctor snapped. “Why
you? It’s my job, if it’s anybody’s.”

“Sorry,” Garth said. “It doesn’t work
out that way. You’re the only guy who
can cure the Silver Plague. Unless you
get out safely, it’s the end of Earth.”

Willard didn’t answer. Garth went on
swiftly.

“You could reach the hangar if it weren’t
for the Zarno. Well, I’ll get inside that
throne and start the ruckus. That’ll give

3 — Planet Storiea— Winter

you time.” His voice was emotionless.

“How do you know you could reach that
temple-cave? The city’s full of Zarno.”

Garth shrugged. “It’s a chance we’ve
got to take. The only one.”

Willard chewed his lip. “Why the devil
do you have to be the one?”

“Because I know the Ancient Tongue.
The robot can talk, can’t it? Well! It’s
between you and me, Doc, and you’re the
boy who can cure the Silver Plague. You
can’t get away from that.”

“I — I suppose so. But — ”

“You know the way out. Give me time
to reach the temple and begin the cere-
mony. Then lead the others out. They’ll
obey you; they’re in the Noctoli trance.
Get ’em to the hangar and light out for Ore-
town. Be sure to take the recording of the
power-source with you.”

“You crazy fool,” Willard said through
stiff lips. “What about Moira?”

Garth’s face went gray. “Moira died
years ago,” he said carefully. “It was the
Silver Plague.”

Doc didn’t reply. But he nodded as
though he had unexpectedly learned the
answer to a problem that had been puz-
zling him.

“Okay,” Garth said. “You know what
to do. Give me time enough to make it.
Then get out of here with the others, fast.”

Willard’s hand gripped Garth’s. “Ed — ”

“Forget it.”

He moved toward the tunnel-mouth.
Paula, he saw, was lying near by, her red-
gold hair cascading about her pale, lovely
face.

Garth stood looking down at her for a
long moment. Then he went on, into the
tunnel that waited for him. He did not
look back;

Cautiously he stepped through the black
curtain, ready to retreat at sight of any
Zarno. But the cavern was empty.

If he could make it — !

Noiselessly he stole up the passage.
Once he froze against the wall at the sound
of distant footsteps. But they faded and
were gone.

He came out at last into a corridor he
recognized. Far away, he saw the flash-
ing gleam of the Zarno’s silicate skins.
They were approaching, but apparently
had not seen him yet.

He raced for the archway that led into

PLANET STORIES

34

the temple-cavern. If there were any
Zarno there, it would be fatal. But luck
favored him. The immense room was
empty. At the far end the huge robot
sat on its jet throne.

Garth sprinted across the floor. He
could hear voices growing louder in the
distance, and the thumping of the Zarnos’
footsteps, but he dared not risk a glance
behind. Could he make it?

He jerked to a halt, springing behind
the throne, its bulk temporarily hiding him.
The Zarno were in the temple-cave now;
he could tell that by their voices. Hastily
he sought the secret spring.

A panel opened in the ebon block. It
was exactly as he had seen it on the tripod-
recording machine, a fair-sized cubicle
with light coming faintly through a vision-
slit in one wall. Garth wedged himself in
and slid the panel shut behind him, gasping
with relief. Peering through the slit, he
found he could see the entire cavern.
Three Zarno were approaching.

The robot, seated on the throne above
him, was, of course, invisible. Garth
stared around, trying to remember the de-
tails of the Ancients’ recording. A helmet
transmitter . . . there it was, attached by
wires to the low ceiling. Warily Garth
slipped it upon his head.

What now?

A flat black plate, like a diaphragm, was
set in the wall slightly above his head as
he crouched. This hiding-place, he real-
ized, had been built for the larger bodies
of the Ancients.

Closing his eyes, he tried to concen-
trate. Doc Willard had said the helmet-
transmitters worked that way. Telep-
athy — will-power —

“Stand up!” he commanded silently to
the unseen robot above him. " Stand up!”

There was a stir of movement. Garth,
peering through the slit, saw the three
Zarno jerk to a halt.

One of them cried, “The gods return!
Kra-enlarnov! The gods!”

G ARTH put his mouth close to the dia-
phragm. His words, amplified, rolled
out through the cavern in the Ancient
Tongue.

“Yes — the gods return! Summon the
Zarno! Let none fail to obey the sum-
mons !’’

Shouts went up. The Zarno whirled
and raced away. For the moment, Garth
was alone.

He concentrated on the transmitter
again, commanding the robot to move for-
ward to the edge of the dais, till he could
see its back.

“Raise your arm. Step back. Forward
again. Back.”

It worked. The robot obeyed his men-
tal commands, awkwardly, but — it obeyed.

“Back. Sit on the throne.”

A jarring crash deafened Garth momen-
tarily. He had forgotten how huge the
robot was. No doubt the creature should
lever itself down gradually into its seat,
instead of dropping a ton of metal solidly
on the black block.

Footsteps again. The Zarno were be-
ginning to pour into the cavern. Huge as
it was, they almost filled it. They flung
themselves flat, crawling toward the dais,
nodding their misshapen heads in awk-
ward rhythm. Their voices were raised in
a deep-throated chant.

Garth concentrated. At his mental com-
mand, the robot rose and paced slowly
forward.

“Kra-enlar!”

Garth put his mouth to the diaphragm.
His voice crashed out.

“The gods have returned ! Hear me,
O Zarno!”

“We hear!”

“Let no Zarno fail to come to the tem-
ple of the gods. Have the guards left
their posts?”

“Nay — nay!”

“Summon them,” Garth roared. “When
the gods speak, all must hearken. Let
every Zarno come to me now, or die!”

Some of the creatures raced away and
returned with others. The chant continued.

“Have any Zarno failed to heed my
summons ?”

“None — none! We are here — all!”

Garth nearly shouted with relief. There
were almost two thousand Zarno in the
cavern, he judged, all genuflecting before
the dais. And that meant that the city
was unguarded — that Doc Willard could
lead the others to the anti-gravity hangar.

If he could hold the Zarno here!

Garth shook his head, feeling oddly
dizzy. He tried to concentrate. At his
mental "order, the giant robot lifted its

CRYPT-CITY OF THE DEATHLESS 0\E 35

arms in symbolic, ritualistic gestures he
remembered from the tripod-recorder.

But the dizziness persisted. Garth real-
ized that his lungs were hurting. He found
it difficult to draw a deep breath.

Air — he needed fresh air ! The inhuman
lungs of the Ancients probably were able
to endure lack of oxygen far better than
the human organism. In any case — Garth
realized that the air was getting stale.

He investigated the vision-slit. It was
barred by a glassy, transparent pane that
seemed as hard as steel. Well, it would
be necessary to open the panel behind him
— a few inches, anyway. Garth’s hand
sought for the spring. It was in plain
sight; there was no need to conceal it
within the throne’s compartment.

He pressed it There was a low grind-
ing that stopped almost immediately. Garth
tried again.

Useless. The mechanism, somehow,
was jammed. Probably its mechanism had
failed when the huge robot had crashed
down on the throne.

That meant —

Garth’s fingers tried to find some pur-
chase on the smooth surface of the panel.
He failed . . .

A Zarno called a question. Garth turned
back to the eye-slit, trying to fight back
his dizziness. Heads were lifted, he saw,
watching him inquiringly, as though the
silicate creatures expected something.
Well—

He made the robot move again, its arms
reaching out in ancient ceremonial ges-
tures. A gasp of awe came from the
Zarno.

Their chant thundered out, deeper, so-
norous and inhuman.

G ARTH felt the beginning of a throb-
bing ache in his temples. Pie was
trapped here. How long could he stand it ?
He was human, not one of the Ancients.
He needed air —

He held the Zarno, but not for long.
Once more bulbous heads were lifted, oval
eyes watching him inquiringly. They
were expecting something — what? Garth
tried to remember what he had seen in the
recorder.

More heads were lifted.

Garth made the robot step forward,
raising its metal arms. He had to say

something — anything that would hold the
Zarno quiet for a while, long enough for
Doc and the others to escape. Words he
had forgotten since childhood came sud-
denly, unexpectedly to him. The English
phrases meant nothing to the Zarno, but
the sonorous, powerful chant kept them
silent.

“He shall deliver thee from the snare
of the hunter; and from the noisome
pestilence. . . Thou shalt not be afraid
for any terror by night ; nor for the arrow
that flieth by day ... A thousand shall
fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy
right hand; but it shall not come nigh
thee . .

The agony flamed up again in Garth’s
brain, consuming, terrible. The huge ro-
bot body of the dais swayed, caught itself,
and the chant thundered out again through
the great cavern.

“If I take the wings of the morning;
and remain in the uttermost parts of the
sea; even there also shall thy hand lead
me . . .

The distant, harsh clangor of a bell
sounded. Garth had heard it before, when
he had crossed the threshold of the black
temple in the forest. At the sound the
Zarno stirred, and a few of them
sprang up.

Garth thrust out his hand, fighting back
the pain that tore at him like white flame.

His voice held them —

“The floods are risen, O Lord, the
floods have lifted up their voices; the
floods lift up their waves . . . The waves
of the sea are mighty, and rage horribly:
but yet the Lord, who dwelleth on high,
is mightier — ”

He held them. He held them, speaking
a tongue they did not know, while his mind
shook under the impact of sanity-destroy-
ing pain. A slow, sick bitterness crept
into his soul. Was this the end — death
here, prisoned on an alien world, so far
from his home planet?

Death — and for what?

He closed his mind to the thought. Men-
tally he paced Doc and the others through
the tunnel, from the black temple to the
hangar. S'urely they must have reached
it by now! Paula —

That first glimpse he had had of the
girl, in Tolomo’s drinking-hell — Moira, he
had thought then, for an incredible instant.

36 PLANET

Yes, she had been like Moira. If the paths
of destiny had led elsewhere than to the
Black Forest of Ganymede, the result
might have been far distant. He would
not be dying here alone, horribly alone.
Moira — Paula —

They were the same, somehow. And
Garth knew he had' to keep going, till he
had saved Paula Trent. A little time — a
few moments more, to keep the Zarno in
check.

He and Moira had been cheated of their
lives, their futures in some way he could
not quite understand. But there remained
Paula. She must not die. She and the
others must get through.

"Ed."

Garth’s heart answered that soundless
call. His lips formed the name Moira.

S HE was there, beside him, and he did
not question, did not even wonder. It
was enough that she had come back. Her
brown ringlets curled about the pale face
as he remembered, and the blue eyes held
love and — something more.

A message.

“What is it, Moira? What — ” He

reached out hungry arms.

“Ed. It isn’t only us. It’s Earth.
Don’t stop now, Ed. A few more minutes
to hold the Zarno back ; that will be enough.
Be strong. A little time more — such a
little time, and then you can rest.”

A phantom born of his delirium. Garth
knew, but she was no less real for that.
He tried to speak and failed. His chest
constricted with pain. Outside the altar,
the Zarno were stirring uneasily.

“I — I can’t — ”

“You must.”

Anger swept through him. “Why?
We’ve been cheated of everything, Moira!
Our heritage — ”

She smiled at him, very tenderly. “The
grass is still green on the hills of Earth,
my lover. Have you forgotten? The lit-
tle streams that go laughing down the
valleys, and the ocean surging up to the
white beaches? There are still sunsets on
Earth, and men and women will see them
for ages to come. Men who might have
been our sons; women who might have
been our daughters. And they are our
children, Ed, as surely as though we had
given them birth. For we are giving them

STORIES

life. There will be a future for mankind
because of us. We have given up our own
lives that our children may live, and go
on to glories we can never know ourselves.
It is Earth that needs your help now —
and that is something greater than either
of us.”

Something greater . . .

The Zarno were beginning to move for-
ward, and some of them were sidling
toward the passage. Garth, gasping for
breath, summoned all his reserve energy.
He seemed to feel Moira’s cool hand on
his shoulder, silently urging him on.

Something greater —

“The days of man are but as grass,” he
croaked, and the amplified sound went
thundering through the temple, halting
the Zarno where they stood. They turned
again to the altar.

“For he flourisheth as a flower of the
field . . . for as soon as the wind goeth
over, it is gone — ”

He held them, somehow, knowing that
Moira stood beside him. Toward the end,
Garth was no longer conscious of his sur-
roundings. The Zarno swam before his
eyes, changing, altering, and abruptly they
vanished. In their place was — was —

He saw Earth, as he remembered it, the
loveliest planet of all. He saw the heart-
breaking beauty of flaming sunsets over
the emerald seas, and the snowy purity of
high peaks lifting above baking deserts.
He felt the cold blast of Earthwinds on
his cheeks, the stinging, exciting chill of
mountain streams against his skin. There
was the warm smell of hay, golden in the
fields ; the sharpness of eucalyptus and
pine ; the breath of the little bright flowers
that grow only on Earth.

He heard the voices of Earth. The
chuckling of brooks, and the deep shouting
of the gale ; the lowing of cattle, the sound
of leaves rustling, and the crash of angry
breakers. The soul of Earth spoke to the
man who would never see it again.

He listened, while he chanted the majes-
tic, rolling syllables that kept the Zarno
in check. Beside him was Moira. Be-
neath him, his own world, green and beau-
tiful.

And across the emerald planet men and
women came marching, sunlight making a
golden path for them as they moved out
of darkness into the unknown brightness

CRYPT-CITY OF TRE DEATHLESS ONE 37

of the future. They were like gods, great-
limbed, lovely, and with eyes fearless as
a falcon’s filled with laughter.

Before their marching feet the road of
the ages unrolled. Mighty cities reared
to the blue skies of Earth, and ships swept
out beyond the stars, binding the galaxies
and the universe with unbreakable chains
of life. Outward and ever outward the
circles of humanity and civilization rippled.

Men and women like gods, unafraid,
knowing a life greater than ever before —

And they turned questioning eyes on
Garth, asking him the question on which
their existence depended.

“Will you save us? Will you give us
life? Will you give us the future you
yourself can never know?”

Garth answered them in his own way,
with Moira beside him. For now it did
not matter that he was dying ; he had found
something greater than he had ever known
before.

Through the temple his voice rang like
brazen trumpets.

“ — the wind bloweth . , . and the place
thereof shall know it no more . .

A PANEL in the wall by his head lit
up, making a square of brightness.
He strained his eyes at it, discerning a pic-
ture. A scanner of some sort. It showed
a transparent ovoid slanting up through the
black trees of the forest, a ship with Doc
Willard at the controls and eleven men
and a girl in tire vessel with him — a girl

with red-gold hair, going back to Earth,
with the knowledge that would save a
world from destruction.

He had not failed.

The picture on the scanner darkened.
The burning ache in Garth’s lungs grew
worse. If he could breathe —

On the dais, the robot swayed, its metal
legs giving beneath its weight. The crash
of its fall brought the Zarno to their feet,
frozen with amazement for a moment.
Then they moved forward like a wave.

Garth saw them, dimly, through the
vision-slit. A white curtain of pain blot-
ted them out. He was dying; he knew
that. The shouts of the Zarno came to
him faintly.

“the wind bloweth . . . and the place
thereof shall know it no more . . .”

But in that place the seeds of the future
would grow. Once more Garth saw the
children of Earth’s unborn generations,
and this time the question in their eyes
was answered. They would live and go
on, to the stars, and beyond.

Moira was beside him. Her cool hand
touched his; she came into his arms.

And the white curtain flamed agoniz-
ingly for the last time.

Then, mercifully, there was no more
pain. Under the black throne Garth’s
body lay motionless in its strange tomb.

The Zarnos’ cries filled the temple as
they mourned their dead god — but the
man who had saved Earth did not hear
them.

Sufyxtf
BUY WAR SAVINGS

BONDS AND STAMPS

Conspiracy on Callisto

By JAMES MacCREIGH

Revolt was flaring on Callisto, and Peter Duane held the secret that
would make the uprising a success or failure. Yet he could make
no move, could favor no side — his memory was gone — he didn’t

know for whom he fought.

D UANE’S hand flicked to his waist
and hung there, poised. His dis-
gun remained undrawn.

The tall, white-haired man — Stevens — •
smiled.

“You’re right, Duane,” he said. “I
could blast you, too. Nobody would win
that way, so let’s leave the guns where
they are.”

The muscles twitched in Peter Duane’s
cheeks, but his voice, when it came, was
controlled. “Don’t think we’re going to
let this go,” he said. “We’ll take it up
with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether
you can cut me out!”

The white-haired man’s smile faded.
He stepped forward, one hand bracing him
against the thrust of the rocket engines
underneath, holding to the guide rail at
the side of the ship’s corridor.

He said, “Duane, Andrias is your boss,
not mine. I’m a free lance; I work for
myself. When we land on Callisto tonight
I’ll be with you when you turn our —
shall I say, our car got — over to him. And
I’ll collect my fair share of the proceeds.
That’s as far as it goes. I take no orders
from him.”

A heavy-set man in blue appeared at
the end of the connecting corridor. He
was moving fast, but stopped short when
he saw the two men.

“Hey!” he said. “Change of course —
get to your cabins.” He seemed about to
walk up to them, then reconsidered and
hurried off. Neither man paid any at-
tention.

Duane said,' “Do I have to kill you?”
It was only a question as he asked it, with-
out threatening.

A muted alarm bell sounded through the
P.A. speakers, signaling a one-minute
warning. The white-haired man cocked
his eyebrow.

“Not at all,” he said. He took the mea-

sure of his slim, red-headed opponent.
Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more
uncompromisingly belligerent than Duane,
standing there. “Not at all,” he repeated.
“Just take your ten thousand and let it
go at that. Don’t make trouble. Leave
Andrias out of our private argument.”

“Damn you!” Duane flared. “I was
promised fifty thousand. I need that
money. Do you think — ”

“Forget what I think,” Stevens said,
his voice clipped and angry. “I don’t care
about fairness, Duane, except to myself.
I’ve done all the work on this — I’ve sup-
plied the goods. My price is set, a hun-
dred thousand Earth dollars. What
Andreas promised you is no concern of
mine. The fact is that, after I’ve taken
my share, there’s only ten thousand left.
That’s all you get!"

Duane stared at him a long second, then
nodded abruptly. “I was right the first
time,” he said. “I’ll have to kill you!”

A LREADY his hand was streaking
toward the grip of his dis-gun,
touching it, drawing it forth. But the
white-haired man was faster. His arms
swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him
impotent.

“Don’t be a fool,” he grated. “Duane — ”
The P.A. speaker rattled, blared some-
thing unintelligible. Neither man heard it.
Duane lunged forward into the taller man’s
grip, sliding down to the floor. The white-
haired man grappled furiously to keep his
hold on Peter’s gun arm, but Peter was
slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens went
for his own gun.

He was too late. Duane’s was out and
leveled at him.

“ Now will you listen to reason?” Duane
panted. But he halted, and the muzzle
of his weapon wavered. The floor
swooped and surged beneath him as the

38

The Cameroon blotted from its cradle, racing Andriat' thipt for open space. 39

40 PLANET

thrust of the mighty jets was cut off.
Suddenly there was no gravity. The two
men, locked together, floated weighdessly
out to the center of the corridor.

“Course change!” gasped white-haired
Stevens. “Good God !”

The ship had reached the midpoint of
its flight. The bells had sounded, warning
every soul on it to take shelter, to strap
themselves in their pressure bunks against
the deadly stress of acceleration as the
ship reversed itself and began to slow its
headlong plunge into Callisto. But the two
men had not heeded.

The small steering rockets flashed briefly.
The men were thrust bruisingly against
the side of the corridor as the rocket spun
lazily on its axis. The side jets flared
once more to halt the spin, when the one-
eighty turn was completed, and the men
were battered against the opposite wall,
still weightless, still clinging to eacli other,
still struggling.

Then the main-drive bellowed into life
again, and the ship began to battle against
its own built-up acceleration. The cor-
ridor floor rose up with blinking speed to
smite them —

And the lights went out in a burst of
crashing pain for Peter Duane.

S OMEONE was talking to him. Duane
tried to force an eye open to see
who it was, and failed. Something damp
and clinging was all about his face,
obscuring his vision. But the voice fil-
tered in.

“Open your mouth,” it said. “Please,
Peter, open your mouth. You’re all right.
Just swallow this.”

It was a girl’s voice. Duane was sud-
denly conscious that a girl’s light hand
was on his shoulder. Pie shook his head
feebly.

The voice became more insistent. “Swal-
low this,” it said. “It’s only a stimulant,
to help you throw off the shock of your
— accident. You’re all right, otherwise.”

Obediently he opened his mouth, and
choked on a warm, tingly liquid. He
managed to swallow it, and lay quiet as
deft feminine hands did something to his
face. Suddenly light filtered through his
closed eyelids, and cool air stirred against
his damp face.

He opened his eyes. A slight red-headed

STORIES

girl in white nurse’s uniform was stand-
ing there. She stepped back a pace, a
web of wet gauze bandage in her hands,
looking at him.

“Hello,” he whispered. “You — where
am I?”

“In the sick bay,” she said. “You got
caught out when the ship changed course.
Lucky you weren’t hurt, Peter. The man
you were with — the old; white-haired one,
Stevens — wasn’t so lucky. He was under-
neath when the jets went on. Three ribs
broken — his lung was punctured. He died
in the other room an hour ago.”

Duane screwed his eyes tight together
and grimaced. When he opened them
again there was alertness and clarity in
them — but there was also bafflement.

“Girl,” he said, “who are you? Where
am I?”

“Peter!” There was shock and hurt
in the tone of her voice. “I’m — don’t you
know me, Peter ?”

Duane shook his head- confusedly. “I
don’t know anything,” he said. “I — I
don’t even know my own name.”

“Duane, Duane,” a man’s heavy voice
said. “That won't wash. Don’t play
dumb on me.”

“Duane?” he said. “Duane. . . .” He
swiveled his head and saw a dark, squat
man frowning at him. “Who are you?”
Peter asked.

The dark man laughed. “Take your
time, Duane,” he said easily. “You’ll re-
member me. My name’s Andrias. I’ve
been waiting here for you to wake up.
We have some business matters to discuss.”

The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an
odd bewilderment, said: “I’ll leave you
alone for a moment. Don’t talk too much
to him, Mr. Andrias. He’s still suffer-
ing from shock.”

“I won’t,” Andrias promised, grinning.
Then, as the girl left the room, the smile
dropped from his face.

“You play rough, Duane,” he observed.
“I thought you’d have trouble with
Stevens. I didn't think you’d find it
necessary to put him out of the way so
permanently. Well, no matter. If you
had to kill him, it’s no skin off my nose.
Give me a release on the merchandise.
I’ve got your money here.”

CONSPIRACY

D UANE waved a hand and pushed him-
self dizzily erect, swinging his legs
over the side of the high cot. A sheet
had been thrown over him, but he was
fully dressed. He examined his clothing
with interest — gray tunic, gray leather
spaceman’s boots. It was unfamiliar.

He shook his head in further confusion,
and the motion burst within his skull,
throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until
it subsided, trying to force his brain to
operate, to explain to him where and what
he was.

He looked at the man named Andrias.
“Nobody seems to believe me,’’ he said,
“but I really don’t know what’s going on.
Things are moving too fast for me.
Really, I — why, I don’t even know my own
name! My head — it hurts. I can’t think
clearly.”

Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-
suspicious look on Duane. “Don’t play
tricks on me,” he said savagely. “I haven’t
time for them. I won’t mince words with
you. Give me a release on the cargo
now, before I have to get rough. This
is a lot more important to me than your
life is.”

“Go to hell,” Duane said shortly. “I’m
playing no tricks.”

There was an instant’s doubt in An-
drias’ eyes, then it flashed away. He bent
closer, peered at Duane. “I almost
think — ” he began.

Then he shook his head. “No,” he said.
“You’re lying all right. You killed
Stevens to get his share — and now you’re
trying to hold me up. That’s your last
chance that just went by, Duane. From
now on, I’m running this show!”

He spun around and strode to the door,
thrust it open. “Dakin!” he bellowed.
“Reed!”

Two large, ugly men in field-gray uni-
forms, emblazoned with the shooting-star
insignia of Callisto’s League police, came
in, looking to Andrias for instructions.

“Duane here is resisting arrest,” An-
drias said. “Take him along. We’ll fix
up the charges later.”

“You can’t do that,” Duane said wearily.
“I’m sick. If you’ve got something
against me, save it. Wait till my head
clears. I’m sure I can explain — ”

“Explain, hell.” The dark man laughed.
“If I wait, this ship will be blasting off

ON CALLISTO 41

for Ganymede within two hours. I’ll wait
— but so will the ship. It’s not going
anywhere till I give it clearance. I run
Callisto; I’ll give the orders here!”

II

W HOEVER this man Andrias was,
thought Duane, he was certainly a
man of importance on Callisto. As he had
said, he gave the orders.

The crew of the rocket made no objec-
tion when Andrias and his men took Duane
off without a word. Duane had thought
the nurse, who seemed a good enough sort,
might have said something on his behalf.
But she was out of sight as they left. A
curt sentence to a gray-clad official on the
blast field where the rocket lay, and the
man nodded and hurried off, to tell the
rocket’s captain that the ship was being
refused clearance indefinitely.

A long, powerful ground car slid up
before them. Andrias got in front, while
the two uniformed men shoved Duane
into the back of the car, climbed in beside
him. Andrias gave a curt order, and the
car shot forward.

The driver, sitting beside Andrias,
leaned forward and readied a hand under
the dashboard. The high wail of a siren
came instantly from the car’s roof, and
what traffic was on the broad, straight
highway into which they had turned
pulled aside to let them race through.

Ahead lay the tall spires of a city.
Graceful, hundreds of feet high, they
seemed dreamlike yet somehow oddly fa-
miliar to Duane. Somewhere he had seen
them before. He dragged deep into his
mind, plumbing the cloudy, impenetrable
haze that had settled on it, trying to bring
forth the memories that lie should have
had. Amnesia, they called it ; complete
forgetting of the happenings of a lifetime.
He’d heard of it — but never dreamed it
could happen to him !

My name, it seems, is Peter Duane,
he thought. And they tell me that I killed,
a man!

The thought was starkly incredible to
him. A white-haired man, it had been;
someone named Stevens. He tried to re-
member.

Yes, there had been a white-haired man.
And there had been an argument. Some-

42

PLANET STORIES

thing to do with money, with a shipment of
goods that Stevens had supplied to Duane.
There has even been talk of killing. . . .

But — murder ! Duane looked at his

hands helplessly.

Andrias, up ahead, was turning around.
He looked sharply at Duane, for a long
second. An uncertainty clouded his eyes,
and abruptly he looked forward again
without speaking.

“Who’s this man Andrias?” Duane
whispered to the nearest guard.

The man stared at him. “Governor An-
drias,” he said, “is the League’s deputy
on Callisto. You know — the Earth-Mars
League. They put Governor Andrias here
to — well, to govern for them.”

“League?” Duane asked, wrinkling hi$
brow. He had heard something about a
League once, yes. But it was all so
nebulous. . . .

The other guard stirred, leaned over.
“Shut up,” he said heavily. “You’ll have
plenty of chance for talking later.”

B UT the chance was a long time in com-
ing. Duane found himself, an hour
later, still in the barred room into which
he’d been thrust. The guards had brought
him there, at Andrias’ order, and left him.
That had been all.

This was not a regular jail, Duane
realized. It was more like a •palace, some-
thing out of Earth’s Roman-empire days,
all white stone and frescoed walls. Duane
wished for human companionship— par-
ticularly that of the nurse. Of all the peo-
ple he’d met since awakening in that hos-
pital bed, only she seemed warm and hu-
man. The others were — brutal, deadly.
It was too bad, Duane reflected, that he’d
failed to remember her. She’d seemed hurt,
and she had certainly known him by first
name. But perhaps she would understand.

Duane sat down on a lumpy, sagging
bed and buried his head in his hands. Dim
ghosts of memory were wandering in his
mind. He tried to conjure them into
stronger relief, or to exorcise them en-
tirely.

Somewhere, some time, a man had said
to him, “Andrias is secretly arming the
Callistan cutthroats for revolt against the
League. He wants personal power — he's
prepared to pay any price, for it. He needs
guns. Earth guns smuggled in through the

League patrol. If he can wipe out the
League police garrison — those who are
loyal to the League, still, instead of to
Andrias — he can sit back and laugh at any
fleet Earth and Mars can send. Rockets
are clumsy in an atmosphere. They’re
helpless. And if he can arm enough of
Callisto’ s rabble, he can’t be stopped. That’s
why he’ll pay for electron rifles with their
weight in gold.’’

Duane could remember the scene clearly.
Could almost see the sharp, aquiline face
of the man who had spoken to him. But
there memory stopped.

A fugitive recollection raced through his
mind. He halted it, dragged it back, pinned
it down.' . . .

They had stopped in Darkside, the space-
port on the side of Luna that keeps per-
petually averted from Earth, as if the moon
knows shame and wants to hide the rough
and roaring dome city that nestles in one
of the great craters. Duane remembered
sitting in a low-ceilinged, smoke-heavy
room, across the table from a tall man
with white hair. Stevens !

“Four thousand electron rifles,” the man
had said. “Latest government issue. Never
mind how I got them; they’re perfect. You
know my price. Take it or leave it. And
it’s payable the minute we touch ground
on Callisto.”

There had been a few minutes of hag-
gling over terms, then a handshake and a
drink from a thin-necked flagon of pale-
yellow liquid fire.

He and the white-haired man had gone
out then, made their way by unfrequented
side streets to a great windowless building.
Duane remembered the white-hot stars over-
head, shining piercingly through the great
transparent dome that kept the air in the
sealed city of Darkside, as they stood at
the entrance of the warehouse and spoke in
low tones to the man who answered their
summons.

Then, inside. And they were looking at
a huge chamber full of stacked fiber boxes
— containing nothing but dehydrated dairy
products and mining tools, by the stencils
they bore. Duane had turned to the white-
haired man with a puzzled question — and
the man had laughed aloud.

He dragged one of the boxes down,
ripped it open with the sharp point of a
handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-

CONSPIRACY

mouthed guns rolled out, tumbling over the
floor. Eight of them there were in that
one box, and hundreds of boxes all about.
Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into
the chamber where the tiny capsule of
U-235 would explode with infinite violence
when the trigger was pulled, spraying
radiant death three thousand yards in the
direction the gun was aimed. . . .

And that memory ended.

Duane got up, stared at his haggard face
in the cracked mirror over the bed. “They
say I’m a killer,’’ he thought. “Apparently
I’m a gun-runner as well. Good lord — 1
what am I not?”

His reflection — white, drawn face made
all the more pallid by the red hair that
blazed over it — stared back at him. There
was no answer there. If only he could
remember —

“All right, Duane.” The deep voice of
a guard came to him as the door swung
open. “Stop making eyes at yourself.”

Duane looked around. The guard
beckoned. “Governor Andrias wants to
speak to you — now. Let’s not keep the
governor waiting.”

A LONG, narrow room, with a long
carpet leading from the entrance up
to a great heavy desk — that was Andrias’
office. Duane felt a click in his memory
as he entered. One of the ancient Earth
dictators had employed just such a psycho-
logical trick to overawe those who came
to beg favors of him. Muslini, or some
such name.

The trick failed to work. Duane had
other things on his mind; he walked the
thirty-foot length of the room, designed to
imbue him with a sense of his own unim-
portance, as steadily as he’d ever walked
in the open air of his home planet.
Whichever planet that was.

The guard had remained just inside the
door, at attention. Andrias waved him out.

“Here I am,” said Duane. “What do
you want?”

Andrias said, “I’ve had the ship inspected
and what I want is on it. That saves your
life, for now. But the cargo is in your
name. I could take it by force, if I had
to. I prefer not to.” He picked up a
paper, handed it to Duane. “In spite of
your behavior, you can keep alive. You
can even collect the money for the guns

ON CALLISTO 43

— Stevens’ share as well as your own. This
is a release form, authorizing my men to
take four hundred and twenty cases of
dehydrated foods and drilling supplies
from the hold of the Cameroon — the ship
you came on. Sign it, and we’ll forget our
argument. Only, sign it now and get it
over with. I’m losing patience, Duane.”

Duane said, without expression, “No.”

Dark red flooded into Andrias’ sallow
face. His jaws bunched angrily and there
was a ragged thread of incomplete control
to his voice as he spoke.

“I’ll have your neck for this, Duane,”
lie said softly.

Duane looked at the man’s eyes. Death
was behind them, peeping out. Mentally
he shrugged. What difference did it make ?

“Give me the pen,” he said shortly.

Andrias exhaled a deep breath. You
could see the tension leave him, the mottled
anger fade from his face and leave it
without expression. He handed the paper
to Duane without a word. He gave him
a pen, watched him scrawl his name.

“That,” he said, “is better.” He paused
a moment ruminatively. “It would have
been better still if you’d not stalled me so
long. I find that hard to forgive in my
associates.”

“The money,” Peter said. If he were
.playing a part — pretending he knew what
he was doing — he might as well play it to
the hilt. “When do I get it?”

Andrias picked up the paper and looked
carefully at the signature. He creased it
thoughtfully, stowed it in a pocket before
answering.

“Naturally,” he said, “there will have to
be a revision of terms. I offered a hun-
dred and ten thousand Earth-dollars. I
would have paid it — but you made me
angry. You’ll have to pay for that.”

D UANE SAID, “I’ve paid already.

I’ve been dragged from pillar to post
by you. That’s enough. Pay me what
you owe me, if you want any more of the
same goods!”

That was a shot in the dark — and it
missed the mark.

Andrias’ eyes widened. “You amaze
me, Duane,” he said. He rose and stepped
around the desk, confronting Duane. “I

44 PJLAIVET

almost think you really have lost your
memory, Duane,” he said. “Otherwise,
surely you would know that this all the
rifles I need. With them I’ll take what-
ever else I want!”

Duane said, “You’re ready, then. . .

He took time to think it over, but he
knew that no thought was required. Al-
ready the hands that he had locked behind
him were clenched, taut. Already the
muscles of his legs were tensing.

“You’re ready,” he repeated. “You’ve
armed the Callistan exiles — the worst gut-
ter scum on nine planets. You’re set to be-
tray the League that gave you power here.
. . . Well, that changes things. I can’t
let you do it!”

He hurled himself at Andrias, hands
sweeping around to grapple for the dark
man’s throat. Andrias, off-balance, stag-
gered backward. But his own hands were
diving for the twin heat guns that hung
at his waist.

Duane saw his danger, and reacted. His
foot twisted around Andrias’ ankle; his
hands at the other’s throat gripped tighter.
He lunged forward, slamming the hard
top of his head into the other’s face, feel-
ing flesh and cartilage give as Andrias’
nose mashed flat. His own head pin-
wheeled dizzily, agonizingly, as the jar
revived the pain of his earlier accident.

But Andrias, unconscious already, tum-
bled back with Duane on top of him. His
head made an audible, spine-chilling thud
as it hit the carpeted floor.

Duane got up, retrieving the two heat
guns, and stared at him.

"They tell me I killed Stevens the same
way,” he thought. “I’m getting in a rut!”

But Andrias was not dead, though he
was out as cold as the void beyond Pluto.
The thick carpeting had saved him from a
broken head.

Duane stepped over the unconscious man
and looked around the room. It was
furnished severely, to the ponit of barren-
ness. Two chairs before Andrias’ ornate,
bare-topped desk and one luxurious chair
behind it; a tasseled bell cord within easy
reach of Andrias’ chair; the long carpet.
That was all it contained.

The problem of getting out was serious,
he saw. How could one —

STORIES

III

M ETHODICALLY he ransacked the
drawers of Andrias’ desk. Papers,
a whole arsenal of hand guns, Callistan
money by the bale, ominously black-cov-
ered notebooks with cryptic figures litter-
ing their pages — those were the contents. A
coldly impersonal desk, without the fa-
miliar trivia most men accumulate. There
was nothing, certainly, that would get him
out of a building that so closely resembled
a fortress.

He tumbled the things back into the
drawers helter-skelter, turned Andrias
over and searched his pockets. More
money — the man must have had a fortune
within reach at all times — and a few mean-
ingless papers. Duane took the release he
had signed and tore it to shreds. But
that was only a gesture. When Andrias
came to, unless Duane had managed to get
away and accomplish something, the mere
lack of written permission would not keep
him from the rocket’s lethal cargo !

When Andrias came to. . . .

An idea bloomed in Duane’s brain. He
looked, then, at unconscious Andrias — and
the idea withered again.

He had thought of forcing Andrias him-
self to front for him, at gun’s point, in
the conventional manner of escaping
prisoners. But fist fights, fiction to the
contrary notwithstanding, leave marks on
the men who lose them. Andrias’ throat
was speckled with the livid marks of
Duane’s fingers ; Duane’s head, butting
Andrias in the face, had drawn a thick
stream of crimson from his nostrils, turned
his sharp nose askew.

No guard of Andrias’ would have been
deceived for an instant, looking at that
face — even assuming that Andrias could
have been forced to cooperate by the threat
of a gun. Which, considering the stake
Andrias had in this play, was doubtful. . . .

He stood up and looked around. He
had to act quickly. Already Andrias’
breath was audible ; he saw the man grimace
and an arm flopped spasmodically on the
floor. Consciousness was on its way back.

Duane touched the heat gun he’d thrust
into his belt; drew it and held it poised,
while he sought to discover what was in
his own mind. He’d killed a man already,
they said. Was he then a killer — could he

CONSPIRACY

shoot Andrias now, in cold blood, with so
much to gain and nothing to lose?

He stood there a moment. Then,
abruptly, he reversed the weapon and
chopped it down on Andrias’ skull.

There was a sharp grunt from the still
unconscious maft, but no other sign. Only
— the first tremors of movement that had
shown on him halted, and did not reappear.

“No," Duane thought. “Whatever they
say, I’m not a killer!"

But still he had to get out. How?
Once more he stared around the room,
catalogued its contents. The guard would
be getting impatient. Perhaps any minute
he would tap the door, first timorously,
then with heavier strokes.

The guard! There was a way!

D UANE eyed the length of the room.

Thirty feet — it would take him a
couple of seconds to run it at full speed.
Was that fast enough?

There was only one way to find out.

He walked around the desk to the bell
cord. He took a deep breath, tugged it
savagely, and at once was in speedy mo-
tion, racing toward the door, his footsteps
muffled in the deep, springy carpet. Al-
most as he reached it, he saw it begin to
open. He quickly sidestepped and was
out of the guard’s sight, behind the door,
as the man looked in.

Quick suspicion flared in his eyes, then
certainty as he saw Andrias huddled on
the floor. He opened his mouth to cry
out —

But Duane’s arm was around his throat,
and he had no breath to spare. Duane’s
foot lashed out and the door slammed shut ;
Duane’s balled left fist came up and con-
nected with the guard’s chin. Abruptly
the man slumped.

Duane took a deep breath and let the
man drop to the floor. But he paused only
a second; now he had two unconscious
men on his hands and he dared let neither
revive until he was prepared.

He grasped the guard’s arm and dragged
him roughly the length of the room. He
leaped on top of the desk, brutally scarring
its gleaming top with the hard spikes of
his boots. His agile fingers unfastened the
long bell cord without causing it to ring
and, bearing it, he dropped again to the
floor.

ON CALLISTO 45

Tugging and straining, he got the limp
form of Andrias into his own chair, bound
him with the bell cord, gagged him with
the priceless Venus-wool scarf Andrias
wore knotted about his throat. He tested
his bindings with full strength, and smiled.
Those would hold, let Andrias struggle
as he would.

The guard he stripped of clothing, bound
and gagged with his own belt and space-
man’s kerchief. He dragged him around
behind the desk, thrust him under it out
of sight. Andrias’ chair he turned so that
the unconscious face was averted from
the door. Should anyone look in, then,
the fact of Andrias’ unconsciousness might
not be noticed.

Then he took off his own clothes, quickly
assumed the field-gray uniform of the
guard. It fit like the skin of a fruit. He
felt himself bulging out of it in a dozen
places. The long cape the guard wore
would conceal that, perhaps. In any case,
there was nothing better.

Trying to make his stride as martial as
possible, he walked down the long carpet
to the door, opened it and stepped outside.

H IS LUCK couldn’t hold out forever.

It was next to miraculous that he got
as far as he did — out of the anteroom be-
fore Andrias’ office, past the two guards
there, who eyed him absently but said noth-
ing, down the great entrance hall, straight
out the front door.

Going through the city had been easier,
of course. There were many men in uni-
forms like his. Duane thought, then, that
Andrias’ power could not have been too
strong, even over the League police whom
he nominally commanded. The police
could not all have been corrupt. There
were too many of them; had they been
turncoats, aiding Andrias in his revolt
against the League, there would have been
no need to smuggle rifles in for an un-
ruly mass of civilians.

Duane cursed the lack of foresight of the
early Earth governments. They’d made a
prison planet of Callisto; had filled it with
the worst scum of Earth. Then, when the
damage had been done — when Callisto had
become a pest-hole among the planets; its
iniquities a stench that rose to the stars —
they had belatedly found that they had
created a problem worse than the one they’d

PLACET STORIES

46

tried to solve. One like a hydra-beast.

Criminality was not a thing of heredity.
The children of the transported convicts,
most of them, were honest and wanted to
be respectable. And they could could not
be.

Earth’s crime rate, too, had not been
lowered materially by exiling its gangsters
and murderers to Callisto. When it was
long past time, the League had stepped
in, and set a governor of its own over
Callisto.

If the governor had been an honest man
a satisfactory solution might have been
worked out. The first governor had been
honest. Under him great strides had been
made. The bribe-proof, gun-handy League
police had stamped out the wide-open
plague spots of the planet ; public works
had been begun on a large scale. The
beginnings of representative government
had been established.

But the first governor had died. And
the second governor had been — Andrias.

“ You can see the results!” Duane thought
grimly as he swung into the airfield in his
rented ground car. Foreboding was
stamped on the faces of half the Callistans
he’d seen — and dark treachery on the
others. Some of those men had been
among the actual exiled criminals — the last
convict ship had landed only a dozen years
before. All of those whom Andrias planned
to arm were either of the original trans-
portation-men, or their weaker descendants.

What was holding Andrias back? Why
the need for smuggling guns in ?

The answer to that, Duane thought, was
encouraging but not conclusive. Clearly,
then, Andrias did not have complete con-
trol over the League police. But how much
control he did have, what officers he had
won over to treachery, Duane could not
begin to guess.

Duane slid the car into a parking slot,
switched off the ignition and left it. It was
night, but the short Callistan dark period
was nearly over. A pearly glow at the
horizon showed where the sun would come
bulging over in a few minutes; while at
the opposite rim of the planet he could still
see the blood-red disc of mighty Jupiter
lingering for a moment, casting a crimson
hue over the landscape, before it made the
final plunge. The field was not flood-
lighted. Traffic was scarce on Callisto.

Duane, almost invisible in the uncertain
light, stepped boldly out across the jet-
blasted tarmac toward the huge bulk of the
Cameroon, the rocket transport which had
brought him. Two other ships lay on the
same seared pavement, but they were
smaller. They were fighting ships, small,
speedy ones, in Callisto for refueling be-
fore returning to the League’s ceaseless
patrol of the System’s starlanes.

Duane hesitated briefly, wondering
whether he ought to go to one of those
ships and tell his story to its League com-
mander. He decided against it. There
was too little certainty for him there; too
much risk that the commander, even, might
•be a tool of Andrias’.

Duane shook his head angrily. If only
his memory were clear — if only he could
be sure what has was doing!

H E REACHED the portal of the ship.

A gray-clad League officer was
there standing guard, to prevent the ship
taking off.

“Official business,” Duane said curtly,
and swept by the startled man before he
could object. He hurried along the corri-
dor toward the captain’s office and control
room. A purser he passed looked at him
curiously, and Duane averted his face. If
the man recognized him there might be
questions.

For the thousandth time he cursed the
gray cloud that overhung his memory. He
didn’t know, even, who among the crew
might know him and spread the alarm.

Then he was at the door marked. Crew
only — do not enter! He tapped on it,
then grasped the knob and swung it open.

A squat, open-featured man in blue,
the bronze eagles of the Mercantile Service
resting lightly on his powerful shoulders,
looked at him. Recognition flared in his
eyes.

“Duane !” he whispered. “Peter Duane,
what’re you doing in the clothes of An-
drias’ household guard?”

Duane felt the tenseness ebb out of his
throat. Here was a friend.

“Captain,” he said, “you seem to be a
friend of mind. If you are — I need you.
You see, I’ve lost my memory.”

“Lost your memory?” the captain echoed.
“You mean that blow on your head ? The
ship’s surgeon said something . . . yes.

47

CONSPIRACY ON CALLMSTO

that was it. I hardly believed him, though.”

“But were we friends?”

“Why, yes, Peter.”

“Then help me now,” said Duane. “I
have a cargo stowed in your hold, Captain.
Do you know what it is?”

“Why — yes. The rifles, you mean?”

Duane blinked. He nodded, then looked
dizzily for a chair. The captain was a
friend of his, all right — a fellow gun-
runner !

“Good God,” he said aloud. “What a
mess !”

“What’s happened?” the captain asked.
“I saw you in the corridor, arguing with
Stevens. You looked like trouble, and I
should have come up to you then. But
the course was to be changed, and I had
to be there. . . . And the next I hear,
Stevens is dead, and you’ve maybe killed
him. Then I heard you’ve lost your mem-
ory, and are in a jam with Andrias.”

He paused and speculation came into
his eyes, almost hostility.

“Peter Duane,” he said softly, “it strikes
me that you may have lost more than your
memory. Which side are you on. What
happened between you and Andrias? Tell
me now if you’ve changed sides on me,
man. For friendship’s sake I won’t be too
hard on you. But there’s too much at
stake here — ”

“Oh, hell,” said Peter, and the heat gun
was suddenly in his hand, leveled at the
squat man in blue. “I wish you were on
my side, but there’s no way I can tell.
I can trust myself, I think — but that’s all.
Put up your hands!”

And that was when his luck ran out.

“Peter — ” the captain began.

IV

B UT a sound from outside halted him.

Together the two men stared at the
viewplates. A siren had begun to shriek
in the distance, the siren of a racing ground
car. Through the gates it plunged, scat-
tering the light wooden barrier. It spun
crazily around on two wheels and came
roaring for the ship.

Andrias was in it.

Peter turned on the captain, and the
gun was rigidly outthrust in his hand.

“Close your ports!” he snarled. “Up
rockets — in a hurry!”

“Listen, Peter,” the captain began.

“I said, hurry !” The car’s brakes
shrieked outside, and it disappeared from
the view of the men. There was an abrupt
babble of voices.

“Close your ports!” Peter shouted sav-
agely. “Now !”

The captain opened his mouth to speak,
then snapped it shut. He touched the stud
of a communications set, said into it, “Close
ports. Snap to it. Engine room — up
rockets in ten seconds. All crew — stand
by for lift!”

The ship’s own take-off siren howled
shrilly, drowning out the angry voices from
below. Peter felt the whine of the electrics
that dogged shut the heavy pressure doors.
He stepped to the pilot’s chair, slid into it,
buckled the compression straps around him.

The instruments — he recognized them
all, knew how to use them! Had he been
a rocket pilot before his mind had blanked
— before embarking on the more lucrative
profession of gun smuggler? He won-
dered. . . .

But it was the captain who took the ship
off. “Ten seconds,” Peter said. “Get
moving !”

The captain hesitated the barest fraction,
but his eyes were on the heat gun and he
knew that Duane was capable of using it.
“The men — ” he said. “If they’re under-
neath when the jets go, they’ll burn!”

“That’s the chance they take,” said
Duane. “They heard the siren !”

The captain turned his head quickly, and
his fingers flashed out. He was in his own
acceleration seat too, laced down by heavy
canvas webbing. His hands reached out
to the controls before him, and his fingers
took on a life of their own as they wove
dexterously across the keys, setting up
fire-patterns, charting a course of take-off.
Then the heel of his hand settled on the
firing stop. . . .

T HE ACCELERATION was worse
than Peter’s clouded mind had ex-
pected, but no more than he could stand.
In his frame of mind, he could stand al-
most anything, he thought — short of instant
annihilation !

The thin air of Callisto howled past them,
forming a high obligato to the thunder of
the jets. Then the air-howl faded sharply
to silence, and the booming of the rockets

48 PLANE T

became less a thing of sound than a rumble
in the framework of the Cameroon. They
were in space.

The captain’s foot kicked the pedal that
shut off the over-drive jets, reducing the
thrust to a mere one-gravity acceleration.
He turned to Duane.

“What now?” he asked.

Duane, busy unstrapping himself from
the restraining belts, shook his head with-
out answering. What now? “A damn
good question!” he thought.

The captain, with the ease of long prac-
tice, was already out of his own pressure
straps. He stood there by his chair, watch-
ing Duane closely. But the gun was still
in Duane’s hand, despite his preoccupa-
tion.

Duane cocked an ear as he threw off
the last strap. Did he hear voices in the
corridor, a distance away but coming.

The captain, looking out the port with
considerable interest, interrupted his train
of thought. “What,” he asked, “for in-
stance, are you going to do about — those ?”

His arm was outstretched, pointing out-
ward and down. Duane looked in that
direction —

The two patrol rockets were streaking
up after his commandeered ship. Fairy-
like in their pastel shades, with the delicate
tracery of girders over their fighting noses,
they nevertheless represented grim menace
to Duane!

He swore under his breath. The
Cameroon, huge and lumbering, was help-
less as a sitting bird before those lithe
hawks of prey. If only he knew which
side the ships were on. If only he knew —
anything !

He couldn’t afford to take a chance.
“Stand back !” he ordered the captain. The
man in blue gave ground before him, star-
ing wonderingly as Duane advanced.
Duane took a quick look at the control
set-up, tried to remember how to work it.

It was so tantalizingly close to his mem-
ory ! He cursed again ; then stabbed down
on a dozen keys at random, heeled the main
control down, jumped back, even as the
ship careened madly about in its flight,
and blasted the delicate controls to shat-
tered ashes with a bolt from his heat gun.
Now the ship was crippled, for the time
being at least. Short of a nigh-impossible
boarding in space, the two patrol cruisers

STORIES

could do nothing with it till the controls
were repaired. The Cameroon, and its
cargo of political dynamite, would circle
through space for hours or days.

It wasn’t much — but it was the best he
could do. At least it would give him time
to think things over.

No. He heard the voices of the men
in the corridor again, tumbled about by
the abrupt course change — luckily, it had
been only a mild thing compared to the
one that had killed Stevens and caused his
own present dilemma — but regaining their
feet and coming on. And one of the
voices, loud and harsh, was Andrias!
Somehow, before the ports closed, he’d
managed to board the Cameroon!

D UANE stood erect, whirled to face
the door. The captain stood by it.
Duane thrust his heat gun at him.

“The door !” he commanded. “Lock it !”
Urged by the menace of the heat gun,
the captain hurriedly put out a hand to the
lock of the door —

And jerked it back, nursing smashed
knuckles, as Andrias and four men burst
in, hurling the door open before them.
They came to a sliding, tumbling halt,
though, as they faced grim Duane and his
ready heat pistol.

“Hold it!” he ordered. “That’s right.
. . . Stay that way while I figure things
out. The first man that moves, dies for it.”

Dark blood flooded into Andrias’ face,
but he said no word, only stood there glar-
ing hatred. The smear of crimson had
been brushed from his face, but his nose
was still awry and a huge purplish bruise
was spreading over it and across one cheek.
The three men with him were guards.
All were armed — the police with hand
weapons as lethal as Duane’s own, Andrias
with an old-style projective-type weapon
— an ancient pistol, snatched from some
bewildered spaceman as they burst into
the Cameroon.

Duane braced himself with one arm
against the pilot’s chair and stared at them..
The crazy circular course the blasted con-
trols had given the ship had a strong lateral
component; around and around the ship
went, in a screaming circle, chasing its own
tail. There was a sudden change in the
light from the port outside; Duane in-
voluntarily looked up for a moment. Dulled

CONSPIRACY

and purplish was the gleam from the bril-
liant stars all about; the Cameroon, in its
locked orbit, had completed a circle and
was plunging through its own wake of
expelled jet-gases. He saw the two patrol
rockets streak past; then saw the flood
of rocket-flares from their side jets as
they spun and braked, trying to match
course and speed with the crazy orbit of
the Cameroon.

He’d looked away for only a second;
abruptly he looked back.

“Easy !” he snapped. Andrias’ arm,
which had begun to lift, straightened out,
and the scowl on the governor’s face dark-
ened even more.

Clackety-clack. There was the sound
of a girl’s high heels running along the
corridor, followed by heavier thumps from
the space boots of men. Duane jerked his
gun at Andrias and his police.

“Out of the way!” he said. “Let’s see
who’s coming now.”

It was the girl. Red hair fluttering in
the wake of her running, face alight with
anxiety, she burst into the room.

“Peter!” she cried. “Andrias and his
men — ”

She stopped short and took in the tableau.
Duane’s eyes were on her, and he was about
to speak. Then he became conscious of
something in her own eyes, a sudden spark
that flared even before her lips opened and
a thin cry came from them; even before
she leaped to one side, at Andrias.

Peter cursed and tried to turn, to dodge ;
tried to bring his heat gun around. But
a thunder louder than the bellowing jets
outside filled the room, and a streak of
livid fire crossed the fringe of Peter’s
brain. Sudden blackness closed in around
him. He fell — and his closing eyes saw
new figures running into the room, saw
the counterplay of lashing heat beams.

This is it — he thought grimly, and then
thought no more.

IV

D UANE was in the sickbay again, on
the same bed. His head was spin-
ning agonizedly. He forced his eyes open
— and the girl was there; the same ‘girl.
She was watching him. A cloud on her
face lifted as she saw his lids flicker open ;

4 — Planet Stories— Winter

ON CALLISTO 49

then it descended again. Her lips quivered.

“Dam you, Peter,” she whispered.
“Who are you now?”

“Why — why, I’m Peter Duane, of
course,” he said.

“Well, thank God you know thatl” It
was the captain. He’d changed since the
last time Peter had seen him. One arm
was slung in bandages that bore the yellow
seeping tint of burn salve.

Peter shook his head to try to clear it.
“Where — where am I?” he asked. “An-
drias — ”

“Andrias is where he won’t bother you,”
the captain said. “Locked up below. So
are two of his men. The other one’s dead.
How’s your memory, Peter?”

Duane touched it experimentally with
a questing mental finger. It seemed all
right, though he felt still dazed.

“Coming along,” he said. “But where
am I? The controls — I blasted them.”

The captain laughed. “I know,” he said
briefly. “Well — I guess you had to, in
a way. You didn’t trust anyone; couldn’t
trust anyone. You had to make sure the
rifles wouldn’t get back to Callisto too
soon. But they’re working on installing
duplicates now, Peter. In an hour we’ll
be back’ on Callisto. We shut the jets off
already; we’re in an orbit.”

Duane sank back. “Listen,” he said. “I
think — I think my memory’s clearing, some-
how. But how — I mean, were you on my
side ? All along ?”

The captain nodded soberly. “On your
side, yes, Peter,” he said. “The League’s
side, that is. You and I, you know, both
work for the League. When they got word
of Andrias’ plans, they had to work fast.
To move in by force would have meant
bloodshed, would have forced his hand.
That would have been utterly bad. It was
too dangerous. Callisto is politically a
powder-keg already. The whole thing
might have exploded.”

Peter’s eyes flared with sudden hope and
enlightment. “And you and I — ” he began.

“You and I, and a couple of other under-
cover workers were put on the job,” the
captain nodded. “We had to find out who
Andrias’ supporters were — and to keep him
from getting more electron rifles while the
commanders of the Callisto garrison were
quietly checked, to see who was on which
side. They’ve found Andrias’ Earth

50 PLANET

backers — a group o£ wealthy malcontents
who thought Callisto should be exploited
for their gain, had made secret deals with
him for concessions. You, of course,
slowed down the delivery of the rifles as
long as you could. They lay in the Lunar
warehouses a precious extra week while
you haggled over terms. That’s what you
were doing with Stevens, I think, when the
course change caught you both.”

'“You’ve had him long enough,” the nurse
broke in. “I have a few words to say.”

“No, wait — ” Duane protested. But the
captain was grinning broadly. He moved
toward the door.

“Later,” he said over his shoulder.
“There’ll be plenty of time.” The door
closed behind him. Duane turned to the
girl.

H E SHOOK his head again. The
cloud was lifting. He could almost
remember everything again; things were
beginning to come into focus. This girl,
for instance —

She noticed his motion. “How’s your
head, Peter?” she asked solicitously.
“Andrias hit you with that awful old bullet-
gun. I tried to stop him, but all I could
do was jar his arm. Oh, Peter, I was so
afraid when I saw you fall!”

“You probably saved my life,” Peter
said soberly. “Andrias struck me as a

STORIES

pretty good shot.” He tried to grin.

The girl frowned. “Peter,” she said,
“I’m sorry if I seemed rude, before — the
last time you were here. It was just that
I. . . . Well, you didn’t remember me.
I couldn’t understand.”

Peter stared at her. Yes — he should re-
member her. He did, only —

“Perhaps this will help you,” the girl
said. She rummaged in a pocket of her
uniform, brought something out that was
tiny and glittering. “I don’t wear it on
duty, Peter. But I guess this is an ex-
ception. . .

Peter pushed himself up on one elbow,
trying to make out what she was doing.
She was slipping the small thing on a
finger. . . .

A ring. An engagement ring!

“Oh — ” said Peter. And suddenly
everything clicked ; he remembered ; he
could recall . . . everything. That second
blow on his head had undone the harm of
the first one.

He swung his legs over the side of the
bed, stood up, reached out hungry arms
for the girl.

“Of course I remember,” he said as she
came into the circle of his arms. “The
ring on your finger. I ought to remember
— I put it there!”

And for a long time after there was no
need for words.

tf-ictton

Destination— Death

By WILBUR S. PEACOCK

One man had to die on Uranus’ frozen erust,
so that the other might live— and Bart Caxton
had a gnu.

A cone of blackness dropped Headley in his tracks.

T HE yellow gauge clicked with a tiny
sound, and the oxygen tank went
dry. The relay ratchetted slowly,
automatically coupled on the next tank, and

the needle on the gauge climbed to high-
pressure again.

Bart Caxton watched the needle swing,
and beads of perspiration rode high on his

51

PLANET STORIES

52

cheekbones. He twisted the metal mug
in his hands, and his voice was ragged
with welling emotion.

“Three weeks,” he said viciously. “And
we’re five weeks from the shipping lanes.
There isn’t enough oxygen to carry us
back.”

“Shut up!” Tom Headley’s tone was
thin with suppressed anger. “All the
danined talking in the world won’t change
things. We’ve got to land now, have got
to find the kronalium, or we’ll never get
back.”

He leaned against the wall, searching
the cloud-shrouded ground below the ship,
feeling the uneven drumming of the rock-
ets driving the ship forward. Nerves
crawled his back, and sweat slimed his
hands. He shuddered, imagining the hor-
rors that might lie below.

The mug banged against the floor, and
Caxton was standing, half-crouched, his
heavy face set and stony, his hands rid-
ing the butts of his twin dis-guns.

“I say we go back,” he snarled through
set teeth.

Headley laughed, and the sound was the
only thing that could have broken the
tension of the moment. He tilted his head
and laughed until the tears ran from his
eyes; and slowly the rage faded from
Caxton’s face, and his shoulders sagged
in weary futility.

“Okay, you win,” Caxton said sullenly.
“I know I can’t force you to turn around,
since you’re the only one of us that can
recognize and work kronalium for the
stern jets. But,” and his eyes were swirl-
ing pools of flaming hate. “When we do
get back, I’m going to blow a hole through
your back some night.”

Tom Headley turned away, the fear
piling in his mind until it was a choking
cloud that stifled all thought.

“If we get back,” he said dully.

H E SLID his hands over the control
panel, adjusting the studs and levers
with a delicate familiarity, striving to
bring another ounce of power from the
single rocket-bank that still functioned.
But there was only the uneven beat of the
rockets vibrating the floor as they had
done for three days now, and no adjust-
ment of the controls could make them
function better.

Bart Caxton sat again, fumbled a ciga-
rette from his pocket, then dropped it to
the floor. His face was white beneath
its tan, and there was a haunted despera-
tion in the tightness of his bulky body.

“How long will it take ?” he asked. “Will
we make it back to Earth before — ” His
voice thickened, “—before we smother to
death?”

Tom Headley shrugged. “It’ll be tight,”
he said slowly. “We’ll be on half oxygen-
rations the full trip back. But it can be
done ; I went three months on half-rations
once — and then got drunk on Earth’s air
for two days after I landed.”

“To hell with you and your fancy
trips!” The madness was building again
in Caxton’s mind. “You’ve been every-
where — but you ain’t been here; you don’t
know what Uranus is like, nobody does.”

He lunged to his feet, pressed close to
the port. His breath clouded the quartzite
pane, and he polished the glass impatiently.

“Look at that,” he said thinly. “That’s
the place we were going to explore; that’s
the place where it is so cold and the
pressure so great, air collapses and can’t
be breathed. We were going to do what
the early explorers failed to do ; try to find
life and minerals. They failed because
their space suits could not stand the cold.
Now we’ll be marooned there because a
damned meteor busted our stem rockets
all to hell!”

“Don’t blame me for that,” Headley
said, and instantly regretted the words.

“Okay!” Caxton spun back to his seat.
“I let the force-screen die for a couple
of hours while I slept. But don’t think
I’m taking the blame for the whole mess,
even at that. This was your screwy idea.”

Headley nodded. “If we succeed, our
reputations will be big enough to gain us
backing for almost anything.” He grinned,
and some of the fear was gone from his
mind. “Hell, what if we are cooped up
here for a few days? I’ll fix the rockets,
we’ll do a bit of exploring, and then high-
tail it back for more oxygen. We’ll live
in vac-suits and save our air; and the
suits hold enough rations to last us for
three months.”

“And if the rockets aren’t fixed?”

Tom Headley forced the thought from
his mind. “They’ll be fixed,” he said
quietly.

DESTINATION — DEATH 53

Bart Caxton slumped into a sullen
silence, his slitted eyes watching the pro-
file of his companion. Slowly, cunning
crept into his face, and his right hand slid
along his thigh toward one belt-gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Headley said without
moving. “You can’t fix the ship, and help
won’t be sent for us for at least three
months. A man couldn’t live that long, on
the oxygen we have left, I don’t believe.”

“I might make the oxygen last for me
until I got back to a regular traffic lane.”

Headley swung about, and anger paled
his face. “Damn it, Caxton,” he said brit-
tlely, “we’ll get out of this! Probably,
because of the pressure and cold on the
planet, we’ll find frozen air which can be
thawed out; we’ll look for it along with
the kronalium .” He watched the stillness
of his partner’s hand. “Murder won’t
solve anything !” he finished softly.

Bart Caxton nodded slowly. “Sorry,
Headley,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve
never been in a jam like this before.”

Tom Headley grinned. “We’ll see it
through — together,” he said.

“Okay !” Caxton’s tone was sullenly
agreeable, but small fires of cunning still
swirled in his eyes.

“Get ready for a shock-landing,” Head-
ley said relievedly, reached for the con-
trols.

T HE ICY wind roared like ten million
furies about the grounded ship, suck-
ing up the powdery snow, smashing it
against the gleaming alumisteel hull. Great
boulders of snow and ice tumbled playfully
about the rubbly landscape, splashed in
foamy explosions into the semi-frozen
pools of liquid that dotted the planet’s
surface.

Tom Headley shivered involuntarily,
turned back from the port.

“Colder than the hinges of hell out
there,” he said worriedly. “I can under-
stand how the first crude vac-suits couldn’t
stand up for very long.”

“Yeah!” Caxton glanced up from seal-
ing the zipper slit at the front of his suit.
“I only hope these suits can take it.”

“They can; they’re made for absolute-
zero work in space. Here, the only trou-
ble lies in the super-gravity and the wind.
Either might rupture the outfits.”

Caxton watched snow pile against a

huge boulder, then saw it whisked in-
stantly away by the force of the wind.
He glanced at his vac-suit against the wall,
and fear rode the sullenness of his eyes.

“Who’s going out to do the exploring?”

Headley smiled from where he tugged
on his suit. “Both of us,” he said cheer-
fully. “We’ll stay together with a shock-
line ; then if one of us is injured, the other
can help him back to the ship.”

He shrugged his shoulders into the suit,
closed the air-tight zipper. Caxton turned
slowly, lifted his suit, carefully fitted it
to his stocky body. His fingers shook
slightly, and his face was white.

Tom Headley watched his partner si-
lently for a moment, then shrugged and
checked the oxy-cylinder pressure-gauge.
The needle pressed tight against its rest-
pin. He lifted the glassite helmet, swung
it idly in his hand for a moment. He knew
the grimness of the moment, knew that
the tank on his back held less than six
hours of life-saving oxygen. When that
was gone, if he were not back at the ship,
he would die. A wry smile lifted the
corners of his mobile mouth. Within the
suit were enough concentrates and vitamin
capsules to last him for months, and a
special apparatus made it possible for
water to be drawn from the air he
breathed. He grinned at the thought;
without air, the rest was superfluous.

“Okay,” Caxton said finally, “let’s take
a look.” He slipped on the helmet, cogged
it to his shoulder-plates, left the visi-port
open. Cunning still burned in his eyes,
and his gaze dropped when he caught the
full impact of Headley’s distrust.

Headley locked on his helmet, cogged
the port shut, tested his radio. Caxton
answered shortly, shut his visi-ports and
both turned to the entrance of the ship.

Metal squealed beneath Headley’s
hands ; then the cogs were loose. Headley
braced his shoulder against the port,
strained mightily, was joined by his part-
ner. Together, their strength was suffi-
cient to force the door open against pres-
sure of the air outside.

T HE AIR gushed in with incredible
force, shoved the men forcefully
against the metal wall, then subsided as
the pressure was equalized. Headley
stepped forward, felt the icy crystals of

54 PLANET

snow tapping against his suit. He thrust
one arm through the port, gasped, as grav-
ity jerked it groundward. He leaned back,
sighed. Inside the ship, with its inertia-
stasis gravity, normal movement was pos-
sible; but outside, with the super gravity,
even slow walking would be a job.

“Set your suit control for three graves,”
he ordered. “That way, we’ll have enough
weight to stay on the ground, and will
still l>e able to move.”

Bart Caxton growled an unintelligible
reply, drew his right arm from the semi-
rigid sleeve of his suit, made an adjust-
ment on the suit’s control-panel. Instantly,
weight descended with pile-driving force,
and muscles corded in his legs to counter-
act the tripled gravity.

Headley adjusted his gravity control,
then connected himself to Caxton with a
ten-foot length of cable. Carefully, he
lowered himself from the port, stood erect
in the howling wind and snow, waited
until Caxton had clambered down to his
side. Reaching upward, they closed the
port, leaving it uncogged, so that they
could easily reenter.

Headley checked his radi-compass bear-
ings, then braced the full force of the
wind, Caxton pressing forward at his side.
They struggled toward the ice-sheathed
cliff a hundred yards away, each step an
agony of effort, clumsily dodging a huge
boulder that rolled a lazy path of death
toward them.

S'now smashed at them, made vision dif-
ficult, went whirling away. Even through
the radi-heated layers of their suits, they
could feel the implacable cold plucking at
their lives with skeletal fingers of death.
Minutes passed, as they fought through
the drifting snow, each minute an age of
effort ; and when Headley glanced back, he
felt a vague surprise to find that they had
travelled so short a distance. He grinned
at Caxton.

“Like trying to run in a slow-motion
dream,” he said, frowned slightly when
he heard his partner’s sullen growl of
acknowledgment.

They struggled forward again, ap-
proaching the cliff of ice and rock that
towered overhead. Headley splashed heed-
lessly through a small pool of semi-liquid,
halted with a tiny cry of excitement.

“L®ok!” he said. “That rock’s alive.”

STORIES

Bart Caxton tilted his gaze to where
several clay-colored rocks lay at the edge
of the pool.

“You’re nuts,” he said. “They’re just
rocks.”

“I’ll swear I saw one move out of the
way of my foot,” Headley insisted stub-
bornly, bent and lifted the first of the
rocks.

It was heavy in his hands, and he had
the uncanny sensation that it squirmed
impatiently as he lifted it. He examined
it carefully, ignoring Caxton’s impatient
words for them to hurry. And even as he
watched, he saw the living rock split in his
hands, opening down the side, disclosing
gill-like fringed flesh that looked like sliv-
ers of whitish ice.

“It is alive!” he exclaimed excitedly,
then dropped the stone as sudden giddiness
clutched at his senses.

Caxton caught at his drooping body.
“What’s wrong?” he snapped.

Headley blinked his eyes. “Nothing!”
he disclaimed. “Just a combination of
pressure and lack of oxygen.” He reached
for his suit’s panel, opened the oxygen
valve another quarter turn.

He shook his head slightly, then bent
to study the rock he had dropped. It had
not moved, nor had its mouth-like opening
closed. It lay at his feet in the shallow
liquid, resembling nothing more than a
ruptured rock.

“To hell with it!” Caxton said disagree-
ably. “Let’s find the kronalium.”

Headley nodded, stumbled after Caxton.
But jubilation was in his heart. When he
and Caxton returned, they would take back
several of the rock-creatures as living proof
of the success of their mission.

He glanced back, saw squat legs flick
from the opening in the rock, saw the
creature scurry back to the few others of
its kind that rested at the side of the semi-
frozen pool of liquid. He grinned again,
then pressed forward to lead the way to
the cliff,

T HEY rested in the lee of the escarp-
ment, safe from the howling wind,
huddling out of the way of the rocks and
snow-clots that went spinning by from the
fury of the storm.

“Now what?” Caxton asked.

Tom Headley glanced at the gauges be-

DESTINATION — DEATH 55

low the level of his chin, watched the
needles carefully.

“God!” he said. “This place is a store-
house of minerals and elements. We’ll
have no trouble getting money for an ex-
pedition.”

“Damn it 1” Rage knotted Caxton’s
voice until it was a thin screech. “Who
cares about that; do you find any traces
of kronalium t”

Headley watched a single dial, turned
slowly, studying the line of cliff-base at
his left. “Close by,” he said. “It must
be a big deposit, for the needle doesn’t
waver.”

“Then let’s get to it!” Caxton came to
his feet, towered over his squatting part-
ner.

Headley struggled upright, fighting the
super-gravity, led the way down the edge
of the escarpment. Time and again, he
fell, tripped by the gravity, whirled aside
by the smashing wind. Each time, he
struggled erect, forced himself to go for-
ward again.

He watched the needle floating in its
case, followed its point unerringly toward
a shallow recess in the cliff’s base. Using
his belt pick, he chopped at the layer of
ice and snow, let out a shout of relief
when a strip of reddish metal appeared.

“This is it,” he announced. “Now the
repair job will be simple.”

Bart Caxton nodded, seeing the metal,
and for a brief second his hand hovered
over the single gun strapped to his suit.
Then he relaxed, caught his pick in his
right hand, bent forward to help smash
away great chunks of the metal.

“It’s almost anticlimactic,” he said
shortly, “finding this stuff so easily.”

Tom Headley grinned. “It would have
been more anticlimactic,” he said, “not to
have found it. I’ve found traces of it on
every planet I’ve visited.”

Then they worked without further con-
versation, digging loose a great pile of
the metal, making staggering trips to the
ship with the precious element that was
the only metal with which their rocket
tubes could be repaired. Hours later,
they cogged the port shut on their ship,
exhausted the tainted air, released a
breathable atmosphere.

Out of their suits, they ate a quick meal,
began the task of smelting the kronalium

so that it would fit the wrecked drive
mechanism at the rear of the ship. Head-
ley worked with the quiet sureness of a
man whose life had been self-sufficient;
Caxton worked with the grim doggedness
of a man who knows that his life hinges
upon his speed in working.

T HEY worked in shifts, eating and
sleeping when they could, Caxton do-
ing the crude work, Headley putting the
final touches upon the delicate task that
was theirs.

And forty hours later they stood in ad-
miration of the job they had done. New
metal tubes glowed redly in the light of
the radi-lamps, ready to send the ship
hurtling back toward inhabitated space.
They still sparkled from the heat generated
when Headley had given them a trial burst
of power.

“And that’s that,” Headley said. His
face was grim and lined, and his smile
was a trifle forced.

Bart Caxton nodded, but his eyes were
on the bank of dials that indicated the
quantity of oxygen still aboard the ship.
His lips were thin, and his eyes blank, as
he made swift calculations in his chaotic
mind.

“Let’s blast off,” he said.

Tom Headley grinned. “Not yet,” he
said. “There's five hundred pounds of
kronalium back there that we’re taking
along. And I want several of those rock
animals for living proof that we’ve been
here.”

Anger distorted Caxton’s features. His
hand sought the gun at his waist, then
dropped beneath the steadiness of Head-
ley’s gaze.

“All right,” he agreed sullenly. “But
let’s hurry.”

Five trips they made, carrying the metal
back to the ship, knowing that each trip
made them more wealthy, so scarce was
the metal in great quantities.

And then, on the sixth trip, Caxton
snatched the single gun from Headley’s
waist. He laughed as he did so, and the
sound was thin and strained with triumph.

“It’s you or me, Headley,” he snarled.
“And I figure it’s going to be me.”

Headley felt horror welling into his
mind, but he forced his voice to be abso-
lutely calm and unemotional.

56 PLANE T

“Don’t be a fool, man,” he said. “Both
of us can make it back, by going on short
oxy-rations.”

Caxton shook his head. “I’m going
back,” he said viciously. “I’m taking the
ship, the kronalium, and a couple of those
damned animals for evidence. I’ll say
that you died on Uranus.” His voice was
suddenly flat and deadly. “Sucker!”

A cone of blackness flared from the gun
in his hand, caught Tom Headley, dropped
him in his tracks. He twitched silently,
lay where he had fallen, his right arm
splashing liquid from the tiny pool at his
feet.

Bart Caxton tossed the gun aside,
leaned over, unscrewed the hinged valve
on Headley’s oxygen tank, then callously
dumped the unconscious man into the pool.

Then, without another glance at the
body submerged in the pool, Caxton caught
up three of the living rocks, turned and
fought his way back to the ship. He
stood for a moment in the ship’s port,
staring bleakly at the pool where the dying
body of his partner lay. Then he slammed
the port, cogged it shut.

He laid the rock animals in a dark
corner of the tank room, then walked
heavily back to the control room and re-
moved his suit. Grinning, he sank into
the pilot’s seat, and his hands raced over
the controls.

Rockets drummed, and the ship fled into
space on a tail of flaming gasses.

Bart Caxton watched the gauges, then
reached out and adjusted the oxygen valve.
He would have to go on three-quarters’
rations, but there would still be oxygen
left when he struck the spacelanes.

ND BACK on Uranus, Tom Headley
stirred out of his unconsciousness.
He gasped, struggled to his feet. Metal
banged on his shoulder, and a reaching
hand found the opened valve. He instinc-
tively screwed it shut, dull horror and ter-
ror piling in his mind.

He knew that he had but seconds to live,
and the utter futility of his predicament
made the situation even more horrible.
True, he had his radio — but its range was
less than a hundred miles; it would bring
rescue only if a rescue party landed. He

STORIES

laughed a bit, grimly, ironically, remem-
bering the great supply of food tablets
that were in his suit. All that he lacked
to live was air.

Then he frowned, seeing the oxygen
gauge in his suit. The needle pressed
tight against its stop-post. He tapped it,
then checked another gauge. And sudden
understanding came to his eyes — and he*
fought against the hysterical laughter that
filled his throat.

Bart Caxton had failed in his murder
attempt.

For Tom Headley’s shoulder tank was
full of liquid oxygen. He had fallen into
a pool of oxygen, liquiesced by the tre-
mendous pressure of Uranus, and the
pressure of the atmosphere had forced
the oxygen into his tank.

Now there were but the interminable
weeks of waiting that were to come before
a rescue expedition was sent to save him.

A ND ON the ship speeding back to the
spacelanes, Bart Caxton clawed at
his shirt collar. He gasped, trying to get
oxygen from the dying air. He read the
gauges with incredulous eyes, then came
to his feet and lurched down the corridor.
He swung through the door of the tank
room, swayed there, his eyes straining into
the semi-darkness.

And a terrible scream ripped at his con-
stricted throat. For he knew then the
thing that Headley would shortly discover.
The pools of semi-frozen liquid on Uranus
were of liquid oxygen — and the animals
in those pools lived on pure oxygen.

Even as he watched, one animal turned
from the last tank of oxygen, ran franti-
cally about on short legs, then collapsed,
its split mouth gaping in death.

Caxton screamed, felt nausea cramping
at his body. He remembered then the
liquid into which he had rolled Headley’s
body, and he knew the other man would
live to see Earth again. And he knew then
that the animals in the ship had used in
minutes the life-giving gas that should
have lasted for days.

And even as he screamed, he fell. And
the last sight he had was of the rock-
animals’ split mouths laughing at him and
his plans in an awful mocking silence.

BLACK-OUT

By JOSEPH FARRELL

The destiny of a dying world lay in
another — a bine planet which could
not control its own.

O LD THAK watched fondly as the instrument, a duplicate of the one de-
new telescope was being put into stroyed in the latest great war. It was as
its place. He had been a long fine a telescope as Mars could produce,

time persuading the elders to build this and only Thak’s assurances that the work

57

58 PLANET

was of the greatest importance had se-
cured him this luxury.

His project must succeed, he felt, glanc-
ing at his students. Like him, they were
almost spherical in shape, with fine arm-
like appendages ringing their middles. They
were young and enthusiastic, and Thak
believed they could revive the science of
astronomy. He, the last astronomer of
Mars, would teach them all he knew.

The overseer of the workers was dis-
gusted. “You waste our resources, Thak,”
he declared. “You have taken two years
of labor by dozens of workers, and for
what ? So that you may look at the sky !”

Thak’s tentacles purpled, a sign of irri-
tation. “You military men!” he retorted.
“It was your kind, Mitfpa, that destroyed
our civilization and reduced our race to a
few hungry thousands. You have ruined
progress and science forever. You have
hastened the death of our race. Unless — ”

He waved through the open doorway,
pointing out the early evening sky. Just
rising over the horizon was a blue body
that was of a dazzling brilliance, outshin-
ing all the other heavenly bodies. Thak’s
voice became emotional.

“On that planet,” he said, “are civilized
beings. They hold the only hope for the
salvation of our race. We must work to
contact them, as long as there is one of
us to carry on!”

“What is this, Thak ?” Mitfpa demanded
angrily. “How can you say, old one, that
people of intelligence live on the blue
planet? You will tell me next that you
have been there !”

The soldier laughed scornfully, but
Thak’s voice was unruffled as he ex-
plained. “This is no mere fancy of mine.
These people have been signalling to us
for some time. And when I signalled back
by creating a network of space-warping
lines through our entire power system,
they strengthened their signals. Then came
your war — ”

“Space warps?” Mitfpa growled. “More
power wasted? How was this accom-
plished ?”

The workers were bolting the last
legs of the telescope into position, and
the students were making happy squeaks.
Thak looked gratefully toward his new
instrument, and toward the scholars. A
fine lot of young ones, these. Perhaps,

STORIES

in them, astronomy would become once
more a science of great importance. Per-
haps they would be the salvation of Mars.

He answered Mitfpa’s questions. “The
power used was very small. You have
heard of controlled space warps?”

“What about it?” grumbled the soldier.

“An interesting laboratory trick. But
it also occurs in nature. As a youth I
once saw the light of stars bent around
the sun in a selector-scope; indeed, it was
this very phenomenon that showed our
scientists how to make their own warps.”

“Enough of your lecture, old one. What
was the result of this scientific trickery?”

“One as stupid as you would not un-
derstand the method,” Thak replied lev-
elly, “but the result of warping all of our
power beams was a network of opaque
lines that to an observer would be an
obvious signal. And now, if you are quite
ready to leave — ?”

RUMBLING, Mitfpa departed, taking
his soldier-worker with him. Thak
checked the placement of the telescope,
finally nodding in satisfaction as he found
everything in proper order. The four stu-
dents crowded around, watching with in-
terest. He gazed good-naturedly at them.

“Our work is a great one,” he declared.
“We must communicate with the third
planet by means of a system of signals
that we shall work out — in time. But
there is so little time. . . .” His tentacles
curled thoughtfully about him. “You have
followed the work of our last great physi-
cist, Mor Gran?”

“You mean,” asked an alert youngster
named Rofan, “the probability tables
worked out by him? Showing that the
end is near for our race?”

Thak nodded sadly. “Indeed, lad, the
future appears dark. War and its dis-
organization must inevitably strangle civil-
ization. Even now our race is thinned
in numbers, and the beasts of the desert
multiply.”

“There,” he went on, waving toward the
‘blue planet, “is our only hope. If we can
effect communication with them, and be
guided by their superior wisdom, we may
yet rally. They may have some secret —
some way to prevent wars — ”

“You continue to speak of their supe-
rior wisdom, Mor Thak,” said Rofan.

BLACK-OUT

“How can you be so very sure of that?”

“It is obvious, lad. Their signal system
consists of spots of light over the greater
part of the land surface of their planet.
I have shown you the old photographs,
taken before the last war, showing these
lights. Even with the small telescope I
have been forced to use during these lean
years, I have watched the lights. What a
mighty science theirs must be that can
make the night time light merely to signal
another planet ! For that can be the
only purpose of the lights.”

Rofan let his tentacles 6url about him
as he concentrated. “You must be right,”
he finally agreed. “I was going to sug-
gest that they might be the lights of cities.
I noticed many of them were situated
where a city would be likely — but there
must be millions of beings to populate so
many cities — ”

One of the other pupils made a loud
amused noise. “Whoever heard of a city
without a roof?” he demanded. “Could
lights be seen through a roof ?”

Rofan was embarrassed, and he re-
mained very quiet for a while, wonder-
ing how he could have made such a stupid
error. Of course lights could not be
seen through a roof. And who had ever
heard of a city without a roof !

Thak, paying no attention to the by-
play, focused his lens with great care.
The students gathered about the concave
bowl of white quartz. The lights were
lowered, and into the bowl moved a blurred
sphere. As Thak’s tentacles moved the
lenses closer and closer into focus, the
sphere resolved itself with more and more
clarity, until it was a fine image of the
third planet.

Awed by the splendor of the sight, the
students could only stare. And indeed it
was a breathtaking spectacle, as if they
were gathered in the immense void of
space itself, looking at the planet from
a height of several thousand miles.

There were five continents in two major
land masses, Thak had told them. In addi-
tion, there were several islands of great
size, at last one being practically of conti-

59

nental dimensions, besides a host of islands
large and small which dotted the surface of
the planet.

The hemisphere on which they gazed
was mostly water. The larger land mass
was passing from sight. And half of the
smaller mass was presented to their vision,
a double continent that spread almost from
pole to pole, with a narrow isthmus joining
north and south.

Like all Martians, they thrilled to a
scene of fearful beauty, and they stood
around the quartz bowl for a long time,
not speaking, merely watching the twin
continehts come into full view. None no-
ticed old Thak’s eyes peering desperately
at the image of the third planet. Nor did
they see the look of utter despair that
grew in his face. They were too intent on
the strange scene,

I T WAS Rofan who first felt that some-
thing was wrong. The novelty was
wearing off, and an elusive thought made
him uncomfortable. Something was wrong
with the picture . . . what was it?

Suddenly he realized. He turned to
Thak. “But — the lights, M or Thak? The
signals — ”

Thak’s face looked as old as Mars it-
self as he gazed at his pupil. He started
to speak several times before he could
manage.

“We have failed,” he said, in heavy
tones. “Our signals must have been too
weak for the beings of the blue planet to
detect. I had hoped — ”

He arose and looked sadly into the eve-
ning sky. “I had hoped I was wrong.
For two years now — our years — I have
watched through my small telescope, and
the lights have been disappearing, one by
one, sometimes, but more often several at
a time. I thought it was the weakness of
my instrument. I was wrong. Every
light on the blue planet has been blacked
out . . ”

His voice was a low wail. "And — the
blacking out of those lights means a black-
out of life on Mars. A plmet-wide black-
out . , ,”

PS's feature
flash

L'LASHING yoa the highlights on one of the
men you’ve met in preceding issues — those
cosmic-minded writers who help to nourish
Planet Stories and the Vizigraph.

W E’VE often wondered about the
thought processes of artists; we’ve
got a rough idea of what writers and
readers think about. So when Guy Gif-

ford artlessly (no pun) included a page of
ideas for his latest “Ringers’ Cartoon”
with his cartoon, we thought you readers
might like to peer into the depths of a
cartoonist’s humor.

Here is the page reproduced for your
edification in all its pristine glory, signed
by the ebullient Mr. Gifford, whose voca-
tion, incidentally, is directing the artwork
and editing the official organ of the Los
Angeles Railway Corporation.

We hope you get a kick out of this, for
we know we certainly did. We’ve got a
hunch that Guy really likes to portray the
Ringers; and we’ve got another hunch we
like Guy, Anyway, you look.

I sr s' /o w 17 too .

S.

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61

Castaways of Eros

By NELSON S. BOND

Two families fought for the title to Eros, and only one conld win.
One had to outsmart the other — and both had to win over the un-
scrupulous United Ores Corporation. It was a problem worthy of a
Solomon — and it had an ending even those embittered rivals conld

not foresee.

62

Moira reached for the twisted branch.

B OBBY couldn’t help wishing Pop
would stand up just a little bit
straighter. Not that he was ashamed
of Pop; it wasn’t that at all. It was just

that the Patrolman stood so straight, his
shoulders broad and firm. Standing be-
side him made Pop look sort of thin and
puny; his chest caved in like he was car-

64 PLANET

rying a heavy weight on his shoulders.

That was from studying things through
a microscope. Anyhow, decided Bobby
with a fierce loyalty, that S.S.P. man
probably wouldn’t even know what to look
for if somebody put a microscope in front
of him. Even if he was big and sturdy
and broad-shouldered in his space blues.

Mom said, “Bobby, what are you mutter-
ing about? Do stop fidgeting!” Bobby
said, “Yessum,” and glared at Moira, as
if she, in some obscure way, were to blame
for his having been reprimanded right out
here in the middle of Long Island Space-
port, where everybody could hear and
laugh at him. But Moira, studying the
handsome S.S.P. man surreptitiously, did
not notice. Dick was fixing something
in the ship. Eleanor stood quietly beside
Mom, crooning softly to The Pooch so it
wouldn’t be scared by the thunderous blast
of rocket motors. Grampaw Moseley had
buttonholed an embarrassed young ensign,
was complaining to him in loud and certain
terms that modern astronavigation prac-
tices were, “Rank bellywash, Mister, and
a dad-ratted disgrace!”

The Patrolman said, “Your name, please,
Sir?”

“Robert Emmet O’Brien Moseley,” said
Pop.

“Occupation ?”

“Research physicist, formerly. Now
about to become a land-grant settler.”

“Age of self and party . . . former
residence. . . .”

Overhead, the sky was blue and thin-
clear as a bowl of skimmed milk ; its vast-
ness limned in sharp relief, to the west
and north, the mighty spans and arches, the
faery domes and flying buttresses of Great
New York. The spacedrome fed a hun-
dred ducts of flight; from one field lifted
air locals, giddy, colored motes with
gyroscopes aspin. From another, a West
Coast stratoliner surged upward to lose
itself in thin, dim heights.

Vast cradles by the Sound were the
nests to which a flock of interplanetary
craft made homeward flight. Luggers and
barges and cruisers. Bobby saw, with sud-
den excitement, the sharp, starred prow
of the Solar Space Patrol man-o’-war.

Here, in this field, the GSC’s — the Gen-
eral Spacecraft Cradles. From one of
which, as soon as Pop got clearance, their

STORIES

ship would take off. Their ship! Bobby
felt an eager quickening of his pulse; his
stomach was aswarm with a host of but-
terflies. Their ship!

The space officer said, “I think that
takes care of everything, Dr. Moseley. I
presume you understand the land-grant
laws and obligations?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Very well, then — ” Space-red hands
made official motions with a hand-stamp
and pen. “Your clearance. And my very
best wishes, Sir.”

“Thank you,” said Pop quietly. He
turned. “That's all. Ready, Mother?
Eleanor ? Moira ?”

Bobby bounded forward. “Can I push
the button, can I, Pop? When we start,
can I?”

D ICK was waiting before the open lock
of the Cuchulainn. Dick could do
anything, everything at once. He took
The Pooch into the circle of his left arm,
helped his mother aboard, said, “Shut up,
kid, you’re enough to wake the dead.
Watch that guard-panel, Elly. Papers all
set, Pop?” And he tickled The Pooch’s
dimpled cheek with an oily finger. “You
act just like your mama,” he said irrel-
evantly, and the baby gurgled. Eleanor
cried, “Dick — those dirty hands!”

“Everything is in order, Richard,” said
Pop.

“Good. You folks go in and strap down.
I’ll seal. Here comes the cradle-monkey
now.”

Pop said, <4 Come along, Robert,” and
the others went inside. Bobby waited,
though, to see the cradle-monkey, the man
under whose orders spacecraft lifted gravs.
The cradle-monkey was a dour man with
gnarled legs and arms and temper. He
looked at the Cuchulainn and sniffed;
then at Dick.

“Family crate, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, f’r goddlemighty’ sakes, don’t
try to blast off with y’r side jets burnin’.
Take a seven-point-nineteen readin’ on y’r
Akka gauge, stern rockets only — ”

“Comets to you, butt-hoister !” grinned
Dick. “I’ve had eight years on the spider
run. I can lift this can.”

“Oh, a rocketeer?” There was new,
grudging respect in the groundman’s tone.

CASTAWAYS OF EROS 65

“Well, how was I t’ know? Y’ought t’
see what some o’ them jaloupi-jockeys do
to my cradles — burn ’em black ! Oh,
well — ” He backed away from the ship.

“Clean ether!’’ said Dick. He closed
the lock. Its seal-brace slid into place,
wheezing asthmatically. Bobby’s ears rang
suddenly with the mild compression of
air ; when he swallowed, they were all right
again. Dick saw him. “What are you
doing here, kid? Didn’t I hear Pop tell
you to come below?”

Bobby said, “I’m not a kid. I’m almost
sixteen.”

“Just old enough,” promised Dick, “to
get your seat warmed if you don’t do
what you’re told. Remember, you’re a
sailor on a spaceship now. Pop’s the
Skipper, and I’m First Mate. If you
don’t obey orders, it’s mutiny, and — ”

“I’m obeying,” said Bobby hastily. He
followed his brother down the corridor, up
the ramp, to the bridge. “Can I push the
button when we take off, huh, Dick?”

After his high expectations, it wasn’t
such a great thrill. Dick set the stops
and dials, told him which button to press.
“When I give the word, kid.” Of course,
he got to sit in the pilot’s bucket-chair,
which was something. Moira and Eleanor
and Mom to lie down in acceleration ham-
mocks while Pop and Dick sat in observa-
tion seats. He waited, all ears and nerves,
as the slow seconds sloughed away. Pop
set the hypos running; their faint, dull
throb was a magic sound in the silence.

Then there came a signal from outside.
Dick’s hand rose in understanding re-
sponse; fell again. “Now!”

B OBBY jabbed the button in frantic
haste. Suddenly the silence was shat-
tered by a thunderous detonation. There
was a massive hand pressing him back
into the soft, yielding leather of his chair;
the chair retreated on oiled channels,
pneumatic compensators hissing faintly,
absorbing the shock. Across the room a
faulty hammock-hinge squeaked rustily.

Then it was over as quickly as it had
begun, and he could breathe again, and
Dick was lurching across the turret on
feet that wobbled queerly because up was
down and top was bottom and everything
was funny and mixed up.

5— Planet Stories— Winter

Dick cut in the artificial gravs, checked
the meter dials with a hurried glance,
smiled.

“Dead on it! Want to check, Skipper?”

But Pop was standing by the observation
pane, eyeing an Earth already ball-like in
the vastness of space. Earth, dwindling
with each passing moment. Bobby moved
to his side and watched; Moira, too, and
Eleanor and Mom, and even Dick.

Pop touched Mom’s hand. He said,
“Martha — I’m not sure this is fair to you
and the children. Perhaps it isn’t right
that I should force my dream on all of
you. The world we have known and loved
lies behind us. Before us lies only un-
certainty. . . .”

Mom sort of sniffed and reached for a
handkerchief. She turned her back to
Pop for a minute, and when she turned
around again her eyes were red and angry-
looking. She said, “You want to go on,
don’t you, Rob?”

Pop nodded. “But I’m thinking of you,
Martha.”

“Of me!” Mom snorted indignantly.
“Hear him talk! I never heard such non-
sense in my life. Of course I want to go
on. No, never mind that! Richard, isn’t
there a kitchen on this boat?”

“A galley, Mom. Below.”

“Galley . . . kitchen . . . what’s the dif-
ference? You two girls come with me.
I’ll warrant these men are starving. 7
am!”

A FTER THAT, things became so nor-
mal as to be almost disappointing.
From his eager reading of such magazines
as Martian Talcs and Cosmic Fiction
Weekly, Bobby had conceived void-travel
to be one long, momentous chain of ad-
venture. A super-thrilling serial, punctu-
ated by interludes with space-pirates,
narrow brushes with meteors, sabotage,
treachery — hair-raising, heroic and
horrifying.

There was nothing like that to disturb
the calm and peaceful journey of the
Cuchulainn. Oh, it was enjoyable to stare
through the observation panes at the flame-
dotted pall of space — until Pop tried to
turn his curious interest into educational
channels; it was exciting, too, to probe
through the corridored recesses of their
floating home — except that Dick issued

66 PLANET

strict orders that nothing must be touched,
that he must not enter certain chambers,
that he mustn’t push his nose into things
that didn’t concern kids —

Which offended Bobby, who was sixteen
Or, anyway, fifteen and three-quarters.

So they ate and they slept and they ate
again. And Pop and Dick spelled each
other at the control banks. Moira spent
endless hours with comb and mirror, de-
vising elaborate hair-dos which — Bobby
reminded her with impudent shrewdness
— were so much wasted energy, since they
were settling in a place where nobody could
see them. And Mom bustled about in
the galley, performing miracles with flour
and stuff, and in the recreation room,
Eleanor minded The Pooch, and lost in-
numerable games of cribbage to Grampaw
Moseley who cheated outrageously and
groused, between hands, about the dad-
blame nonsensical way Dick was handling
the ship.

And somehow three Earth days sped by,
and they were nearing their destination.
The tiny planetoid, Eros.

Pop said, “You deserve a great deal of
credit, son, for your fine work in rehabil-
itating the Cuchulainn. It has performed
beautifully. You are a good spaceman.”

Dick flushed. “She’s a good ship, Pop,
even if she is thirty years old. Some of
these old, hand-fashioned jobs are better
than the flash junk they’re turning off the
belts nowadays. You’ve checked the de-
clension and trajectory?”

“Yes. We should come within landing
radius in just a few hours. Cut drives at
19.04.22 precisely and made such minor
course alterations as are necessary, set
brakes.” Pop smiled happily. “We’re
very fortunate, son. A mere fifteen mil-
lion miles. It's not often Eros is so near
Earth.”

“Don’t I know it? It’s almost a hun-
dred million at perihelion. But that’s not
the lucky part. You sure had to pull
strings to get the government land grant
to Eros. What a plum! Atmosphere . . .
water . . . vegetable life ... all on a hunk
of dirt fifty-seven miles in diameter.
Frankly, I don’t get it! Eros must have
terrific mass to have the attributes of
a full-sized planet.”

“It does, Richard. A neutronium core.”

“Neutronium !” Dick gasped. “Why

STORIES

don’t people tell me these things? Roar-
ing craters. Pop, we’re rich ! Bloated
plutocrats !”

“Not so fast, son. Eventually, perhaps ;
not today. First we must establish our
claims, justify our right to own Eros. That
means work, plenty of hard work. After
that, we might be able to consider a mining
operation. What’s that ?”

Bobby jumped. It vyas Mom’s voice.
But her cry was not one of fear, it was
one of excitement.

“Rob, look! Off to the — the left, or
the port, or whatever you call it! Is that
our new home ?”

Bobby did not need to hear Pop’s reply
to know that it was. His swift intake of
breath was enough, the shine in his eyes
as he peered out the observation port.

“Eros!” he said.

It looked all right to Bobby. A nice,
clean little sphere, spinning lazily before
their eyes like a top someone had set in
motion, then gone away and forgotten.
Silver and green and rusty brown, all still
faintly blued by distance. The warm rays
of old Sol reflected gaily, giddily, from
seas that covered half the planetoid’s sur-
face, and mountains cut long, jagged
shadows into sheltered plains beneath them.
It was, thought Bobby, not a bad looking
little place. But not anything to get all
dewy-eyed about, like Pop was.

Dick said softly, “All right, Pop. Let’s
check and get ready to set ’er down. , .

II

I T WAS NOT Dick’s fault. It was
just a tough break that no one had ex-
pected, planned for, guarded against. The
planetoid was there beneath them; they
would land on it. It was as simple at that.

Only it wasn’t. Nor did they have any
warning that the problem was more com-
plex until it was too late to change their
plans, too late to halt the irrevocable move-
ments of a grounding spaceship. Dick
should have known, of course. He was
a spaceman; he had served two tricks on
the Earth-Venus-Mars run. But all those
planets were large; Eros was just a mote.
A spinning top. . . .

Anyway, it was after the final coordi-
nates had been plotted, the last bank con-
trol unchangeably set, the rockets cut, that

CASTAWAYS OF EROS 67

they saw the curved knife-edge of black
slicing up over Eros’ rim. For a long mo-
ment Dick stared at it, a look of angry
chagrin in his eyes.

"Well, blast me for an Earth-lubbing
idiot! Do you see that, Pop?”

Pop looked like he had shared Dick’s
persimmon.

"The night-line. We forgot to consider
the diurnal revolution.”

"And now we’ve got to land in the dark.
On strange terrain. Arragh! I should
have my head examined. I’ve got a plugged
tube somewhere!”

Grampaw Moseley hobbled in, appraised
the situation with his incomparable ability
to detect something amiss. He snorted
and rattled his cane on the floor.

"They’s absolutely nothin’,” he informed
the walls, "to this hereditation stuff. Elst
why should my own son an’ his son be so
dag-nabbed stoopid?”

" ‘What can’t be cured,’ ” said Pop
mildly, “ ‘must be endured.’ We have the
forward •search-beams, son. They will
help.”

That was sheer optimism. As they
neared the planet its gravitational attrac-
tion seized them tighter and tighter until
they were completely under its compulsion.
Dusk swept down upon them, the sunlight
dulled, faded, grayed. Then as the ship
nosed downward, suddenly all was black.
The yellow beam of the search stabbed re-
luctant shadows, bringing rocky crags and
rounded tors into swift, terrifying relief.

Dick snapped, "Into your hammocks,
everyone! Don’t worry. This crate will
stand a lot of bust-up. It’s tough. A little
bit of luck — ”

But there was perspiration on his fore-
head, and his fingers played over the con-
trol banks like frightened moths.

There was no further need for the arti-
ficial gravs. Eros exerted, strangely, in-
credibly, an attractive power almost as
potent as Earth’s. Dick cut off the gravs,
then the hypos. As the last machine-
created sound died away from the cabin,
Bobby heard the high scream of atmos-
phere, raging and tearing at the Cuchulainn
with angry fingers.

Through howling Bedlam they tumbled
dizzily and for moments that were ages
long. While Dick labored frantically at
the controls, while Moira watched with

bated breath. Mom said nothing, but her
hand sought Pop’s; Eleanor cradled The
Pooch closer to her. Grampaw scowled.

And then, suddenly —

“Hold tight! We’re grounding!” cried
Dick.

And instinctively Bobby braced hims«lf
for a shock. But there was only a shud-
dering jar, a lessening of the roar that
beat upon their eardrums, a dull, flat thud.
A sodden, heavy grinding and the groan
of metal forward. Then a false nausea
momentarily assailed him. Because for
the first time in days the Cuchulainn was
completely motionless.

Dick grinned shakily. “Well!” he said.
"Well !”

Pop unbuckled his safety belt, climbed
gingerly out of his hammock, moved to
the port, slid back its lock-plate. Bobby
said, “Can you see anything, Pop? Can
you?” And Mom, who could read Pop’s
expressions like a book, said, “What is it,
Rob?”

Pop stroked his chin. He said, "Well,
we’ve landed safely, Richard. But I’m
afraid we’ve — er — selected a wet landing
field. We seem to be under water !”

His hazard was verified immediately.
Indisputably. For from the crack beneath
the door leading from the control turret
to the prow-chambers of the ship, came a
dark trickle that spread and puddled and
stained and gurgled. Water!

Dick cried, “Hey, this is bad! We’d
better get out of here — ”

H E LEAPED to his controls. Once
more the plaintive hum of the hypa-
tomics droned through the cabin, gears
ground and clashed as the motors caught,
something forward exploded dully, dis-
tantly. The ship rocked and trembled,
but did not move. Again Dick tried to jet
the fore-rockets. Again, and yet again.

And on the fourth essay, there ran
through the ship a violent shudder, broken
metal grated shrilly from forward, and the
water began bubbling and churning through
the crack. Deeper and swifter. Dick cut
motors and turned, his face an angry mask.

"We can’t get loose. The entire nose
must be stove in! We’re leaking like a
sieve. Look, everybody — get into your
bulgers. We’ll get out through the air-
lock!”

68 PLANET

Mom cried, “But — but our supplies,
Dick! What are we going to do for food,
clothing, furniture — ?’’

“We’ll worry about that later. Right
now we’ve got to think of ourselves. That-
aboy, Bobby ! Thanks for getting ’em out.
You girls remember how to climb into
’em? Eleanor — you take that oversized
one. That’s right. There’s room for you
and The Pooch — ”

The water was almost ankle deep in the
control room by the time they had all
donned spacesuits. Bloated figures in
fabricoid bulgers, they followed Dick to
the airlock. It was weird, and a little bit
frightening, but to Bobby it was thrilling,
too. This was the sort of thing you read
stories about. Escape from a flooding
ship. . . .

They had time — or took time — to gather
together a few precious belongings. Eleanor
packed a carrier with baby food for The
Pooch, Mom a bundle of provisions hastily
swept from the galley bins; Pop remem-
bered the medical kit and the tool-box,
Grampaw was laden down with blankets
and clothing, Dick burdened himself and
Bobby with armloads of such things as he
saw and forevisioned need for.

At the lock, Dick issued final instruc-
tions.

“The air in the bulgers will carry you
right to the surface. We’ll gather there,
count noses, and decide on our next move.
Pop, you go first to lead the way, then
Mom, and Eleanor, Grampaw — ’’

Thus, from the heart of the doomed
Cuchulainn, they fled. The airlock was
small. There was room for but one at a
time. The water was waist — no, breast-
deep — by the time all were gone save Bobby
and Dick. Bobby, whose imagination had
already assigned him the command of the
foundering ship, wanted to uphold the
ancient traditions by being the last to leave.
But Dick had other ideas. He shoved
Bobby — not too gently — into the lock.
Then there was water, black, solid, for-
bidding, about him. And the outer door
opening.

He stepped forward. And floated up-
ward, feeling an uneasy, quibbly feeling in
his stomach. Almost immediately a hard
something clanged! against his impervite
helmet; it was a lead-soled bulger boot;
then he was bobbing and tossing on shal-

STOIUE8

low black wavelets beside the others.

Above him was a blue-black, star-
gemmed sky; off to his right, not distant,
was a rising smudge that must be the
mainland. A dark blob popped out of the
water. Dick.

Dick’s voice was metallic through the
audios of the space-helmet. “All here,
Pop? Everybody all right? Swell! Let’s
strike out for the shore, there. Stick to-
gether, now. It isn’t far.”

Pop said, “The ship, Richard?”

“We’ll find it again. I floated up a
marking buoy. That round thing over
there isn’t Grampaw.”

Grampaw’s voice was raucous, belliger-
ent. “You bet y’r boots it ain’t! I’m on
my way to terry firmy. The last one
ashore’s a sissy !”

Swimming in a bulger, Bobby found,
was silly. Like paddling a big, warm, safe
rubber rowboat. The stars winked at him,
the soft waves explored his face-plate with
curious, white fingers of spray. Pretty
soon there was sand scraping his boots . . .
a long, smooth beach with rolling hills be-
yond.

I N THE sudden scarlet of dawn, it was
impossible to believe the night had even
•been frightening. Throughout the night,
the Moseley clan huddled together there
on the beach, waiting, silent, wondering.
But when the sun burst over the horizon
like a clamoring, brazen gong, they looked
upon this land which was their new home
— and found it good.

The night did not last long. But Pop
had told them it would not.

“Eros rotates on its axis,” he explained,
“in about ten hours, forty minutes. Earth
time measurement. Therefore we shall
have ‘days’ and ‘nights’ of five hours ;
short dawns or twilights. This will vary
somewhat, you understand, with the change
of seasons.”

Dick asked, “Isn’t that a remarkably slow
rotation ? For such a tiny planet, I mean ?
After all, Eros is only one hundred and
eighty odd miles in circumference — "
“Eros has many peculiarities. Some of
them we have discussed before. It ap-
proaches Earth nearer than any other
celestial body, excepting Luna and an oc-
casional meteor or comet. When first dis-
covered by Witt, in 1898, the world of sci-

CASTAWAYS OF EROS

ence marveled at finding a true planetoid
with such an uncommon orbit. At perihelion
it comes far within the orbit of Mars; at
aphelion it is far outside.

“During its near approach in 1900-01,
Eros was seen to vary in brightness at
intervals of five hours and fifteen or twenty
minutes. At that time, a few of the more
imaginative astronomers offered the sug-
gestion that this variation might be caused
by diurnal rotation. After 1931, though,
the planetoid fled from Earth. It was not
until 1975, the period of its next approach,
that the Ronaldson-Chenwith expedition
visited it and determined the old presump-
tion to be correct.”

“We’re not the first men to visit Eros,
then?”

“Not at all. It was investigated early
in the days of spaceflight. Two research
foundations, the Royal Cosmographic So-
ciety and the Interplanetary Service, sent
expeditions here. During the Black
Douglass period of terrorism, the S.S.P.
set up a brief military occupation. The
Galactic Metals Corporation at one time
attempted to establish mining operations
here, 'but the Bureau refused them per-
mission, for under the Spacecode of ’08,
it was agreed by the Triune that all as-
teroids should be settled under land-grant
law.

“That is why,” concluded Pop, “we are
here now. As long as I can remember,
it has been my dream to take a land-grant
colony for my very own. Long years ago
I decided that Eros should be my settle-
ment. As you have said, Richard, it neces-
sitated the pulling of many strings. Eros
is a wealthy little planet ; the man who earns
it wins a rich prize. More than that,
though — ” Pop lifted his face to the skies,
now blue with hazy morning. There was
something terribly bright and proud in
his eyes. “More than that, there is the
desire to carve a home out of the wilder-
ness. To be able to one day say, ‘Here is
my home that I have molded into beauty
with my own ‘hands.’ Do you know what
I mean, son? In this workaday world of
ours there are no more Earthly frontiers
for us to dare, as did our forefathers. But
still within us all stirs the deep, instinctive
longing to hew a new home from virgin
land—”

His words dwindled into silence, and,

69

inexplicably, Bobby felt awed. It was
Grampaw Moseley who burst the queer
moment into a thousand spluttering frag-
ments.

“Talkin’ about hewin’,” he said, “S’posen
we 'hew us a few vittles ? Hey ?”

Dick roused himself.

“Right you are, Grampaw,” he said.
“You can remove your bulgars. I’ve
tested the air; it’s fine and warm, just as
the report said. Moira, while Mom and
Eleanor are fixing breakfast, suppose you
lay out our blankets and spare clothing to
dry? Grampaw, get a fire going. Pop
and Bobby and I will get some wood.”

Thus Eros greeted its new masters, and
the Moseleys faced morning in their new
Eden,

III

RAMPAW MOSELEY wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.
There were no napkins, which suited him
fine.

“It warn’t,” he said, “a bad meal. But
it warn’t a fust-class un, neither. Them
synthos an’ concentrates ain’t got no more
flavor than — ”

Bobby agreed with him. Syntho ham
wasn’t too bad. It had a nice, meaty taste.
And syntho coffee tasted pretty much like
the real thing. But those syntho eggs
tasted like nothing under the sun except
just plain, awful syntho eggs.

Four Eros days — the equivalent of
forty-two Earth hours or so — had passed
since their crash landing. In that short
time, much had been done to make their
beach camp-site comfortable. All mem-
bers of the family were waiting now for
Dick to return.

Pop said seriously, “I’m afraid you’ll
have to eat them and like them for a little
while, Father. We can’t get fresh foods
until we’re settled; we can’t settle until —
Ah! Here comes Dick!”

“I’ll eat ’em,” grumbled Grampaw, “but
be dumed if I’ll like ’em. What’d you
l’arn, Dicky-boy?”

Dick removed his helmet, unzipped him-
self from his bulger, shook his head.

“It looks worse every time I go back.
I may not be able to get in the airlock
again if the ship keeps on settling. The
whole prow split wide open when we hit.

70 PLANET

the ship is full of water. The flour and
sugar and things like that are ruined. I
managed to get a few more things out,
though. Some tools, guns, wire — stuff
like that.”

“How about the hypatomic?”

“Let him eat, Rob,” said Mom. “He’s
hungry.”

“I can eat and talk at the same time,
Mom. I think I can get the hypatomic
out. I’d better, anyhow. If we’re ever
going to raise the ship, we’ll need power.
And atomic power is the only kind we can
get in this wilderness.” And he shook his
head. “But we can’t do it in a day or a
week. It will take time.”

“Time,” said Pop easily, “is the one
commodity with which we are over-sup-
plied.” He thought for a minute. “If
that’s the way it is, we might as well move.”

“Move?” demanded Grampaw. “What’s
the matter with the place we’re at ?”

“For one thing, it’s too exposed. An
open beach is no place for a permanent
habitation. So far we’ve been very lucky.
We’ve had no storms. But for a perma-
nent camp-site, we must select a spot
further inland. A fertile place, where
we can start crops. A place with fresh,
running water, natural shelter against cold
and wind and rain — ”

“What’ll we do?” grinned Dick. “Flip
a coin?”

“No. Happily, there is a spot like that
within an easy walk of here. I discovered
it yesterday while studying the terrain.”
Pop took a stick, scratched a rude drawing
on the sand before him. “This is the coast-
line. We landed on the west coast of this
inlet. The land we see across there, that
low, flat land, I judge to be delta islands.
Due south of us is a fine, fresh- water river,
watering fertile valleys to either side.
There, I think, we should build.”

Dick nodded.

“Fish from the sea, vegetables from our
own farm — is there any game, Pop ?”

“That I don’t know. We haven’t seen
any. Yet.”

“We’ll find out. Will this place you
speak of be close enough to let me con-
tinue working on the Cuchulainnf Yes?
Well, that’s that. When do we start?”

“Why not now? There’s nothing to
keep us here.”

STORIES

T HEY packed their meager belongings
while Dick finished his meal; the sun
w r as high when they left the beach. They
followed the shore line southward, the
ground rising steadily before them. And
before evening, they came to a rolling vale
through which a sparkling river mean-
dered lazily to the sea.

Small wonders unfolded before their
eyes. Marching along, they had discov-
ered that there was game on Eros. Not
quite Earthly, of course — but that was not
to be expected. There was one small, furry
beast about the size of a rabbit, only its
color was vivid leaf-green. Once, as they
passed a wooded glen, a pale, fawnlike
creature stole from the glade, watched
them with soft, curious eyes. Another
time they all started violently as the fa-
miliar siren of a Patrol monitor screamed
raucously from above them; they looked
up to see an irate, orange and jade-green
bird glaring down at them.

And of course there were insects —
“There would have to be insects,” Pop
said. “There could be no fruitful vege-
table life without insects. Plants need bees
and crawling ants — or their equivalent — to
carry the pollen from one flower to an-
other.”

They chose a site on the riverside, a half
mile or so from, above, and overlooking
the sea. They selected it because a spring
of pure, bubbling water was nearby, be-
cause the woodlands dwindled away into
lush fields. And Pop said,

“This is it. We’ll build our home on
yonder knoll. And who knows — ” Again
there grew that strange look in his eyes.
“Who knows but that it may be the shoot
from which, a time hence, there may spring
many cabins, then finer homes, and build-
ings, and mansions, until at last there is
a great, brave city here on this port by the
delta—”

“That’s it, Pop!” said Dick suddenly.
“There’s the name for our settlement.
Delta Port!”

S O, SWIFTLY, sped the next weeks,
and Bobby was not able, afterward,
to tell where they had gone. Time lightens
labor ; labor hastens time. But fleeing
hours left in their wake tangible evidence
of their passage — a change, a growth in
Delta Port,

CASTAWAYS

One of Pop’s first moves had been an
attempted reorganization of their work-
hours on an Eros basis.

“We cannot here,” he explained, "try
to maintain our Earthly habit of sleeping
through night hours, working during the
day. Therefore — ”

And he laid out for them an intricate
and elaborate “nine day week” he had de-
vised ; broken into alternate sleep-and-
labor, meal-and-recreation periods. It was
an ingenious system. But —

It didn’t work.

Despite previous habits, after a short
time men and women, old and young alike,
found themselves growing drowsy as dusk
crept in. There was a general quickening
of life’s tempo to meet the conditions preva-
lent on Eros; the familiar “three meals a
day” ceased to have meaning; the old habit
of sleeping eight hours at one stretch be-
came anomalous under a sky which waxed
and waned from brightness to dark in that
length of time. Imperceptibly at first,
then more and more openly, all found them-
selves working into a new routine. A
design for living under which they tum-
bled into bed for four hours of darkness,
slept suddenly and heartily, woke again,
pursued a half dozen hours of work or
play, then napped once more.

It seemed the most natural thing in the
world. And Pop, never satisfied until he
could explain such things, finally found
an answer.

“I remember, now, that ’way back in
the early years of the Twentieth Century
a group of psychologists from one of the
American universities tried an experiment.
They put two men in a sealed, walled,
sound-proof room which was neither dark
nor light, but was kept constantly a dull,
twilight gray.

“They gave the men — who all their lives
had lived on the accepted Early standard
— instructions to sleep when they felt
drowsy, eat whenever they felt the desire
to do so. After an exceptionally short
time, the life-habits of these human guinea-
pigs altered remarkably. They began eat-
ing not thrice a way, but at intervals rang-
ing from every three to six hours.

“As for sleeping, the experimenters
found it natural to cat-nap for four hour
stretches rather than sustain strength on
one, long, tiresome eight hour sleep-period.

OF EROS 71

“This experiment was duplicated in
1987, under John Carberry of Columbia,
with identical results. The research doc-
tors were forced to the conclusion that
Man is, on Earth, responsive to the con-
ditions under which he must live. That
is, he has adapted himself to Earth’s phe-
nomena. But could his body attain its
natural and normal, uninhibited desires, it
would live precisely as we here on Eros
are living! At a wake-sleep pace of al-
ternate four and six hours !”

I T WAS just like Pop to get excited
about a problem of that nature when
there were so many other things crying
to be done. But Bobby was surprised,
from time to time, to discover that in a
pinch Pop could bob up with an answer
to a stumping question quite unrelated to
the field of empiric science.

It was Pop who, when Dick was having
trouble making their minute supply of nails
and braces do for the construction of the
cabin, offered the suggestion that the joists
be joined by hollowing. It worked. End
logs dove-tailed beautifully; the cabin walls
stood firmer and looked neater than if
laboriously spliced together with metal.

It was Pop, too, who did something about
the plate problem. Unable to bring the
plastics with them in their hasty flight from
the sunken Cuchulainn, the Moseley family
had made rude shift first with large flat,
washed leaves, then with shells taken from
the beach, at last with wooden slabs planed
down by Grampaw.

Pop, annoyed with these slovenly sub-
stitutes, spent several hours wandering by
the shore, through the hills, up the river;
finally returned one afternoon triumphantly
bearing a lump of grayish mud as large as
his head. Ignoring all caustic queries and
comments, he set about molding this into
a plate — and after much fingering, suc-
ceeded in flattening it into a recognizable
shape.

It seemed to bother him not a whit that
the finished product was deckle-edged and
wobbly. He set it out in the sun to dry;
a day later carried it triumphantly to the
table and demanded his meal be served
in it.

“Pottery !” he said. “From a fine clay
bed up Erin River!”

Then he placed his pottery plate on the

PLANET STORIES

72

table with firm hands, and at that imper-
ceptible jar, it promptly fell into five
pieces !

But a beginning had been made, and
curiously enough it was Moira who became
interested in this obscure art of ceramics.
The Moseleys continued to eat from
wooden slabs for some weeks, while Moira
begrimed her fingers with mud that invari-
ably turned to crisp, fragile clay — and
then one day she completed a bowl made
of substance from which all sand-grains
and small pebbles had been painstakingly
sieved, and which had been allowed to dry
slowly under damp grass. And this time
it did not crack. Within a fortnight, a
complete set of crockery made its appear-
ance in the culinary department.

At which point Dick began talking
vaguely about the construction of a kiln,
and Moira started thinking about the pos-
sibilities of decorating her proud young
chinaware.

So the weeks passed, and it was sur-
prising how much had been accomplished,
and how complete and happy life could be,
even without the infinitude of small com-
forts to which they had once been accus-
tomed, and which, on Earth, they had ex-
pected and accepted unthinkingly.

There was no teleo to entertain them,
but somehow nobody seemed to miss its
raucous, glowing presence in the living
room; not even Bobby whose greatest in-
terest in life had once been the nightly
adventures of The Red Patrolman, trans-
mitted through the courtesy of United
Syntho Cereals. Grampaw Moseley made
music with a battered banjo he had salvaged
from the Cuchulainn; they all sang, and
sometimes they danced, too. That was
what Moira liked; she’d fix herself all up
real pretty and dance and dance, even
though her partners were Dick and Pop,
who didn’t dance the modern swoop-steps
very well, and Bobby, who pretended to
dislike it very thoroughly, but thought it
was kind of fun.

G RAMPAW carved a cribbage set, too;

they played it, and chess, and card
games during storms that kept them house-
bound. Dick, in occasional hours of leisure,
cleared a fair athletic field outside. They
had a quoits’ run, a badminton court (a
little uneven, but nobody minded) and a

shuffleboard plane ; also a fine sand-pit for
The Pooch.

Pop had planned the house with his usual
mathematical forevision. From its first
two rooms, built with an eye to offering
swift shelter, soon spread wings. Before
long it had four separate bedrooms, a
kitchen, a dining-nook, and the living- or
meeting-room, which Grampaw called the
“git-together” room. There was also a
cisterned refreshing-room, and another
would be added as soon as Dick devised
a method of supplying the house with fresh,
running water.

Meanwhile, Mom and Eleanor and Gram-
paw Moseley were to be thanked for the
steady improvement in their menu.

Grampaw had early set out his farm; it
was a sight to see him hobbling up and
down the neat, even rows, weeding his
springing crops, swearing at insect inter-
lopers. Luckily the sealed containers of
seeds had not suffered the fate of Mom’s
lamented sugar and flour supply ; the
Moseleys had already nibbled tentatively
at stubby radishes, tiny, crumpled leaves of
lettuce — and in another month or so there
would be more substantial root and fruit
stocks. Potatoes, parsnips, beans, turnips,
beets, tomatoes, corn, salsify, onions.

And wheat! That was the crop most
tenderly watched, most hopefully awaited.
Wheat meant bread ; bread was life. And
the wheat was rippling up in soft, green
wavelets.

Meanwhile, Eros itself supplied many —
if ususual ! — foodstuffs. Every member of
the family watched, carefully, the eating
habits of Erosian small-life; adapted to
their own diet the fruits, seeds, berries,
eaten by native animals, and avoided those
things which, no matter how luscious to
look on, the birds and beasts eschewed.
Some day, when Pop’s laboratory equip-
ment could be brought from the sunken
ship, they would find out about these ques-
tionable foods. But for now, it was best to
be on the safe side.

Artificial light remained a problem.
There were tiny search batteries in their
bulgers, but they used these only in cases
of necessity; they had no oil for lamps
even if they had owned lamps. Eleanor
made a few fat, greasy, ill-shapen candles
out of renderings, but these spluttered and
dripped and lasted but a short time. Aboard

CASTAWAYS OF EROS

the Cuchulainn were all sorts of books,
telling how to make candles properly. But
these were, by now, water-soaked and il-
legible.

So they contrived to get by with little
illumination, looking forward to the day
when Dick should succeed in raising the
hypatomic motor from the ship. Then
they would have all the light and heat and
power they wanted. All from a cupful of
water, or a handful of sand swept up
from the beach.

And all was peaceful and quiet. Until
one day there came a startled shout from
the fields, the sound of excited footsteps,
and Grampaw came hobbling into the house
yelling, “Where’s m’ gun? Marthy, drad-
rat it, where’d y’ put m’ gun?”

Dick grinned and winked at the others
and asked, “What’s the matter, Grampaw?
The moles getting into your garden ?” And
chuckled as Grampaw grabbed up his
pierce-gun and hobbled away. Chuckled,
that is, until the old man’s answer came
floating back over his shoulder.

“Moles be durned! It’s hooman-bein’s,
that’s what it is. /w-trudin’ on our prop-
pity !”

Then Dick roared, “Hey, Grampaw,
wait! Put that gun down! Don’t try to —
Come on, everyone!”

They all went tumbling from the house.
And it was exactly as Grampaw had said.
Approaching Delta Port, some on foot,
some astride animals curiously horselike
save that they had six legs and long, shaggy
hair, came a tiny group of men and wo-
men. Six in number.

Their leader was a man of Pop’s age, a
baldish man, heavy-set and capable look-
ing. Besides him rode a thin, tired look-
ing woman of forty-odd. Next came a
short, pudgy, white-haired man ; then, herd-
ing beside him two youngsters, a boy of
Bobby’s age and a girl slightly younger,
came the last member of the party. A
slim, tall young man with a mop of cin-
namon-colored hair.

The two groups, one nearing the house,
one emerging from it, saw each other at
practically the same time. For a moment,
no one spoke on either side. Dick had
taken the gun from Grampaw’s hands, had
successfully concealed it. And now Pop
broke the silence.

“Greetings, strangers !” he cried heartily.

73

“You’re plenty welcome to Delta Port!”

Then came the shockingly unexpected re-
ply, from the leader of the newcomers.

“Greetings yourself, Mister ! And what
in tarnation thunder are you doing on my
land?”

IV

G RAMPAW MOSELEY was a man
of action. He groped for the rifle
swinging loosely in Dick’s grasp. He said,
“Gimme! Minute I set eyes on that fat
ol’ popinjay I knew — ”

Dick said, “Hush, Grampaw !” and looked
at Pop. Pop looked baffled. He watched
speechlessly as the caravan drew up beside
the, the members dismounted from their
odd beasts of burden. Then he said, hesi-
tantly, “There seems to be some misunder-
standing here, stranger. Allow me to in-
troduce myself and my family. I am
Robert Moseley. This is my father, my
wife, my son and his wife and child, my
other children — ”

The heavy-set man made no offer to
shake hands. He grunted, “Meetcha ! I’m
Sam Wilkes. This is my >wife, my dad,
my kids.” He stared at the house, the cul-
tivated fields. A look of grudging respect
was in his eyes ; there was a touch of envy,
too. “Been doin’ all right for yourself,
ain’t you? For a squatter!”

Pop said slowly, “Squatter, sir? I’m
afraid there’s some mistake. This prop-
erty — as a matter of fact, this entire plane-
toid — is mine under Earth land-grant law.
Now, if you will be kind enough to explain
your presence — ”

“Yours!” Sam Wilkes’ ruddy counte-
nance darkened with outrage. “Earth land-
grant! Bessie, where’d I put that — Oh,
here it is ! Take a look at this, Mr.
Moseley !”

He slapped a strip of parchment into
Pop’s hand, and Pop unfolded it carefully.
Dick looked over his shoulder. One of the
curious, six-legged beasts skittered ner-
vously and Bobby started. The rusty-
thatched boy who had dismounted from it
grinned impishly. He said, “What’s the
matter, skinny, you scared of him?”

Bobby said, “Of course not !” and
watched the animal from the corner of one
eye. “What is it?”

“A gooldak, We brought it here from

74 PLANE T

home. Fastest thing on legs. What’s your
name ?”

“Bobby. What’s yours? And what do
you mean — home?’’

“Sam. They call me Junior. Why,
home is Mars, of course. Where’d you
think?”

That word was being echoed now by
Dick.

“Mars! This is a land-grant charter
issued by the Martian government ! But —
but — Pop, show him yours!”

“Don’t do nothin’ of the sort, son!”
chirped Grampaw belligerently. “That
there scrip o’ his’n is prob’ly fake ! Don’t
explain nothin’ to ’em. Jist tell ’em to git !”

The roly-poly father of Sam Wilkes
turned a querulous eye on Grampaw.

"Who’s the antique?” he demanded
throatily. “Sounds to me like one of them
big-talkin’, poor-scrappin’ Earth soldiers I
fit in the Upland Rebellion.”

“Upland Rebellion!” howled Grampaw.
“Was you one o’ the rebels we chased from
the deserts to the Pole? I might of knowed
it ! Gimme that gun, Dick — ”

“Please, Grampaw!” begged Dick. He
looked at Wilkes. “My father was right,
Mr. Wilkes. There is a dreadful mistake
here. Apparently the Colonial offices of
Earth and Mars have disagreed on the
ownership of this planetoid; your govern-
ment has issued a land-grant on it, and so
has ours.”

“Asteroids,” said Wilkes, “are Martian.
Their very orbits prove — ”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Pop
firmly. “Eros’ orbit is between Earth and
Mars at this moment. It is a part of Earth’s
empire.”

“Is it true,” Bobby asked Junior, wide-
eyed, “that pirate gangs hide in the Mar-
tian deserts? I heard — ”

“Shucks, no! We used to live in East
Redlands, they wasn’t no pirates anywheres
about. Were you ever in Chicago, Skinny?
Is it true there’s a building there two miles
high?”

“Two and a half,” said Bobby com-
placently. “And it covers six city blocks.
And my name’s not ‘Skinny’.”

“ — you’ll notice,” Wilkes was grunting,
“my grant is dated prior to yours. There-
fore Eros is mine, no matter which govern-
ment’s claim is soundest. That’s Inter-
galactic law.”

STORIES

“You seem to forget,” Dick pointed out,
“that we’ve established a permanent settle-
ment. As travelers, you may be consid-
ered itinerant explorers with only the
privileges of a study party. We will ex-
tend to you the courtesies of Eros for the
legal three months, but after that time — ”
“You’ll extend to us!’’ Wilkes’ face was
flame-red. “Why, for a lead credit, I’d — ”
“Sock ’im, Dick!” yelped Grampaw ex-
citedly. “Don’t let ’im git away with that
talk! Sock ’im!”

“Nobody,” rumbled a deep, pleasant
voice, “is going to sock anybody.” The
tall, elder son of Sam Wilkes ranged him-
self beside his father. Bobby noted with
sudden approval that the young man’s
bronzed forearms were corded; there was
a crisp, firm set to his lips ; he looked like
a man who could handle himself equally
well in a ball-room or a brawl. He said,
“Send the women away, Mr. Moseley. I
think we men can settle this matter.”

M OIRA stepped forward, confronted
the young redhead boldly. “And
who are you to be giving orders to us?
Maybe Martians treat their women like
cattle, but Earthmen — ”

“That will do, daugter,” said Pop. And
he nodded. “But that’s not a bad idea,
Wilkes. There is no reason why we should
not be able to settle this question in a
friendly manner. Mrs. Wilkes, if you and
your daughter would accept our hospitality,
I’m sure Martha can find you a cup of tea.
Wilkes, if you and your son would care ,
to sit down with us, we can — Bobby, run
and get some water for the Wilkes’ horses.
If they are horses?” he added dubiously.

“Gooldaks!” sniffed Junior Wilkes dis-
dainfully. “I’ll help you. Skinny. What’s
the matter with that sister of yours? She
looks like an unbaked cookie.”

“Yeah? Then why does your brother
keep staring at her all the time? Come
on — ” Bobby strained desperately for a
suitable term; culled his resources, came
up triumphantly. “Come on, Stinky!”

When they had watered and fed the
gooldaks, Junior wanted to see around the
farm. Bobby showed him, while the other
boy marveled wistfully.

“You folks struck it lucky. This is the
best part of the whole planet. ... I mean
of what we’ve seen so far. We got here

CASTAWAYS OF EROS 7S

a couple weeks before you did, and we’ve
traveled a couple hundred miles looking
for a good location. Boy, it sure was awful
where we cracked up ! Dad named it
Little Hell, because it’s so hot and sandy-
and terrible. No fresh water. One big
hot, salt lake. Red mountains and desert
land. All oxides, Red said — he’s my
brother. He’s smart.”

“So’s mine,” said Bobby. “Are Mar-
tians people?”

“What do you mean ? Of course they’re
people. Same as you. Men that left Earth
because there was too dam much fight-
ing and stuff. And of course Earth tried
to claim Mars as a colony, but Mars won
its fight for independence.”

“Earth just let ’em go free,” scoffed
Bobby. “They didn’t want any dried-up
old planet, anyhow!”

“No? Then why did they — Hey! What’s
that?”

“Quoits. Know how?”

“Do I ! I can beat you !”

“Huh !” said Bobby. He glanced at the
house, but no one was paying any atten-
tion to them. Pop and Dick were deep
in conversation with the Wilkes, father
and son. The two old men were aside on
one corner of the porch rubbing salt in old
wounds, re-fighting the battles of Mer-
candor’s Canal and High Plateau, re-sur-
veying the campaigns that had led to
Martian independence and a better under-
standing between the blue and red planets.
Eleanor and Mom were preparing dinner;
Moira had disappeared. A thin and lonely
figure stood on the steps looking at Bobby
and Junior. Junior called, “Hey, Ginger —
come on down if you want to.” She came.

Bobby said, “What did you call her for?”

“What’s the matter? You 'fraid a girl
can lick you playing games?”

“Huh!” said Bobby again. There was
something sissy about playing games with
fourteen-year-old girls. It didn’t help
much that Ginger, with skinny-armed, keen-
eyed accuracy succeeded in beating both
himself and her brother in two games of
quoits and one of shuffieboard before the
dinner-gong rang.

Dinner was a truculent experience. Con-
versation had done absolutely nothing to
clarify the issue. Both parties were sin-
cere in their conviction of ownership to

Eros. Pop based his claim on the establish-
ment of a permanent base at Delta Port;
Wilkes insisted that priority of arrival was
his proof of occupancy.

“So one of us,” insisted Wilkes, “has
got to leave. And since we can’t — ”
“Can’t?”

“Our ship crashed,” explained Red
Wilkes, watching Moira, “on landing. It
is a total wreck.”

B OBBY thought, glumly, that Moira was
a total wreck, too. He had held hopes
for Moira. Since their arrival on Eros
she had turned into a pretty nice guy;
cheerful, willing to work, fresh-looking.
Now, for some obscure reason, she had
piled her hair up on top of her head, put
powder on her face and red stuff on her
mouth. She wore a dress instead of pants,
and she was mincing and prissing around
like a prize horse.

“So,” continued Wilkes, since we can’t
leave, your family must.”

And Dick laughed out loud.
“Checkmate!” he said.

“What?”

“We’ve wasted time,” said Dick, “trying
to decide which family must leave. The
truth is, neither of us can! Because, you
see, we cracked up in landing, also. Our
ship lies out there four fathoms deep in
Delta Sound!” He rose. “So that’s that,
folks. And I’m afraid, Mr. Wilkes, that
under the present circumstances, your
family will be the one to ultimately depart
from Eros.”

“Ours? Why?”

“Because of the internationally recog-
nized laws of squatters’ rights. You must
know the requirements a settler has to ful-
fill in order to establish claim to land?
He must declare his purpose of settling
upon leaving the parent planet — ”

“We did that,” said Red Wilkes, “be-
fore we left.”

“I know. And four months later he
will be visited by an inspection ship of
the S.S.P.— ”

“We know that, too.”

“ — upon the arrival of which,” Dick
continued, “he must show advancement in
the following colonization projects, (a)
Establishment of a power plant or unit ;
(b) construction of a suitable dwelling or
dwellings; (c) satisfactory advancement of

76 PLANET

natural resources, including farms, fisheries
or other means of livelihood and suste-
nance — ”

“Get to the point!” growled Wilkes.

“Immediately. And with pleasure. You
see, my dear sir, as you have told us, you
left Mars even before we left Earth. But
whereas we have turned our time to good
account, constructing the comforts which
you now see about you, your family has
squandered precious weeks wandering over
the face of Eros seeking a favorable lo-
cation.

“If I am not mistaken, the Solar Space
Patrol’s inspection is only six short weeks
in the offing. And judging from our ex-
perience, you cannot possibly satisfy the
requirements of the land-grant code in that
short space of time. I remind you that the
planting of a garden would, in itself, spell
an end to your ambitions.”

Sam Wilkes was on his feet, choking
with rage.

“That there law is nonsense, Moseley!
The land law allows us a full year to es-
tablish a settlement — ”

“Ah, yes ! The land law. But you for-
get that these are unusual circumstances.
Two families with equally valid rights
have claimed Eros. Land law is overruled,
and the law of squatters’ dominion comes
into effect.

“So, I’m very sorry for you, Wilkes.
But I hope we can be friendly neighbors
for the short time you remain here with
us on Eros.”

W ILKES was a statue of dismay.

The rigidity of him melted enough
to let him turn slowly to his son.

“Is — is that right, Red?”

And the younger Wilkes nodded.

“I’m afraid it is, Dad.”

Sam Wilkes brought his fist down on
the table. The hand-made crockery danced
and trembled.

“Then, by Gad! I’ll have no more of
this talk or no more phoney hospitality.
Bessie, Ginger, Papa — come on! We’re
getting out of here ! We’ve got work
to do!”

Pop said slowly, “I’m sorry, Wilkes.
But—”

“Sorry! Bah!”

“And just where,” cackled Grampaw,
loving it, “might y’ be goin’?”

STORIES

“Not far. Right across the river. You
can’t claim all of this fertile valley — yet!
And you haven’t cleared that ground.”

He stomped to the door; turned there
for one, final warning.

“ — and I advise you Moseleys to keep
off our land, too ! We’re goin' to be mighty
busy provin’ our right to own this planet.
I understand there’s pests around these
parts that are darn disturbin’; I’d hate
to make a mistake and shoot any skunks by
accident. Come on. Mama!”

Bessie Wilkes looked at Mom. Her
worn, tired features sagged piteously. She
wet her lips. “Mrs. Moseley — ”

Mom said, “Rob, don’t you think you’re
being a little harsh, maybe?”

But there was a streak of granite in
Pop, too. And he was angry ; white-
angry as only a tried Irishman can be. He
said in a cold and level voice, “I think,
* Mother, you should' get Mrs. Wilkes’
wraps.”

And they left. Ginger Wilkes turned
to stick out her tongue at Bobby as they
got on their gooldaks and rode toward the
river. And Junior made a gesture which
Bobby returned in kind. But Red Wilkes
didn’t even look back. So there was no
good reason why Moira should have sud-
denly burst into tears and gone to her own
room. . . .

V

I T WAS DI-CK who brought home the
bad news. Two Eros days had passed
since the Wilkes took their angry departure
from the Moseley home. In those two
days, an unhappy atmosphere had settled
down over the house at Delta Port. Moira
said little or nothing, Mom just moped
around the house, The Pooch got indiges-
tion and cried interminably ; even Grampaw
Moseley was grumpier than usual. Bobby
tried to forget the depression by playing
quoits. He gave it up as a bad job. It
wasn’t any fun playing by yourself, and
Dick and Pop were too busy to play with
him. If only —

But comets to Junior Wilkes! And
Ginger, too!

At dinner time, Dick came into the house
slowly, a thoughtful look in his eyes. When
they were seated he said, suddenly, “Have
any of you seen the Wilkes lately?”

CASTAWAYS OF EROS 77

Gram paw said, “I seen Olci Man Wilkes.
He was pitchforkin’ land down by our
south forty, oney on the opposite side o’
the river. Fat ol’ sinner. I chucked a rock
at ’im!”

Bobby looked interested.

“You hit him, Grampaw?”

“I don’t never miss. In the right leg.”

“I bet he hollered.”

Grampaw sucked his upper plate fiercely.
“Nary a holler, dura him! He jist pulled
up his pants-leg and made a face at me.
Decrepit ol’ fool’s got a wooden leg!”

Pop said, “Why did you ask, Richard ?”

“I was wondering if any of you had
noticed what I did.”

“What do you mean?”

Dick started to answer, stopped, rose.
“Come,” he said. “It’s dark. I’ll show
you.”

They followed him out to the porch.
From there the Wilkes settlement could not
ordinarily be seen. Which is why, as they
stood there, one and all gasped astonish-
ment.

The thick, black Erosian night lay
heavy about them everywhere except in
the direction of the Wilkes’ new home.
There it was light; startlingly, dazzlingly,
brilliantly gay and bright! Like a great
white dawn on the river’s edge.

“Power!” cried Pop. “Atomic power!
They must have a hypatomic!”

“They never said they hadn’t. They
told us their space-ship cracked up; we
just took it for granted that since we hadn’t
been able to salvage our hypatomic, neither
could they.”

Bobby said wonderingly, “Gee, Pop, it
looks like at home, doesn’t it? I forgot
lights were so bright.”

Pop said, “I’m afraid we’ve underesti-
mated our competitors, son. If they have
power, they can accomplish all we have, and
more! And in one-tenth the time.”

“That’s just,” said Dick slowly, “what
I’m afraid of. There’s only one answer
to this challenge. I’ve got to get our
hypatomic from the Cuchulainn. And
quickly.”

“But you said — ”

“I know what I said. But I also know
what they can do. In three days they can
have a house ... a fine, big, plastic house
that will *make our hand-hewn log cabin
look like a cowshed. They’ll have elec-

tricity, fuel, running water, all the things
we’ve had to do without When the in-
spectors see their house and compare it
with ours — Mom — get me my bulger. I’m
leaving for the north shore.”

“Tonight, Richard?”

“Immediately.”

Pop said, “And Bobby and I will go
with you,”

T HEY were there before morning. The
shore looked much as Bobby remem-
l>ered it, except that now there was a raft
there; the craft which Dick had used to
float out to the sunken ship on previous
visits. The three of them boarded this,
paddled out to the bobbing buoy that
marked the Cuchulainn’s watery resting-
place.

Dick donned his bulger, weighted his
boots, and went below. The sun rose
higher in the east. After a while, green
wavelets rolled and Dick was up again.

“It’s no use, Pop. It’s like I said. The
ship has continued to settle; the airlock
is jammed tight against the bottom. I
can’t get in any more.”

Pop said, “And I suppose there’s no
way to attach a drag to the ship, work it
loose ?”

“It would take more power than we
have.” Gloomily.

And then Bobby remembered, suddenly.
He said, “Hey, Dick — !”

“Never mind, kid. Help me off, with
this suit.”

“But listen, Dick. I read a story once — ”
“Do what your brother asks, Robert.”
“Will you let me finish, Pop? Listen,
Dick, in this story a rocketeer got locked
out of his spaceship. So he unfastened the
stern-braces and got in through the rocket
jet!”

“He . . . did . . . what?”

“Unfastened the stern-braces — ”

“I heard you !” Dick’s face had sud-
denly lighted. “Great day in the morning,
Pop — I bet it’ll work ! Hand me that jack-
wrench . . . that’s the one ! So long !”

And he was under water again. This
time he stayed under for more than an
hour. He bobbed up, finally, while Pop
and Bobby were having sandwiches. Pop
said, “How’s it going, Richard?”

“Give me a fresh capsule,” demanded
Dick. He took the oxy-tainer, replenished

78 PLANET

his supply pack, disappeared. A long time
passed. Too long a time. Bobby began
to feel apprehensive. He didn’t say any-
thing, though, because he knew Pop was
feeling the same way. And then —

“There he is!” said Pop. And sure
enough, Dick was coming up out of the
water slowly. Terribly slowly. Bobby saw
why. It was because he was weighted by
a square box held in his arms. A familiar
square box. The hypatomic motor of the
Cuchulainn!

“Got it !” gasped Dick. “Easy, now . . .
it’s heavy. I hope it’ll work. It’s been
under water so doggoned long — ”

Joyfully, they lugged it all the way
back to Delta Port. It was sleep-time
when they got there, but they were too
excited to sleep. By fire- and candle-light,
Dick worked on the salvaged power unit,
patching, wiring, repairing. And at dawn
he had it hooked up. He raised his head
gleefully.

“Get ready, folks! Here’s the blow
that smashes the hopes of the Wilkes clan.
Behold — light!”

And he closed a switch. There was a
throbbing hum, a glow, a moment of bright,
joyous, welcome light. Then an angry
growl from deep in the bowels of the atomic
box. And a sudden, blinding flash of blue
light —

Darkness 1 And from the darkness.
Pop’s voice.

“Ruined ! It was under water too long,
son. Too long!”

“Too long,” echoed Dick dolefully.

I T WAS Grampaw Moseley who revived
their dejected spirits. When they had
rested, he came to them, pounding his cane
on the floor, snarling at them with un-
expected vigor.

“You young uns gimme a pain ! Robert,
I’m ashamed o’ ye. An’ you, too, Dicky-
boy! Actin’ like we was licked just be-
cause a silly-lookin’ little old box won’t
act up right.

“We was gettin’ along fine here without
no atomic motor, wasn’t we? Buildin’ a
friendly, comf ’table community? Well,
why can’t we go on livin’ like we was?
We’ll solve the heat an’ light problem some
other way, that ’s all!”

Pop said, “I know, Father. But in

STORIES

time? After all, when the inspectors
come — ”

“Inspectors my foot! They’s one thing
we got that the dad-blamed Wilkses can’t
git with all their heat an’ free power an’
hot-an’-cold runnin’ water, ain’t they?”

“Wh-what’s that?”

“Vittles! One o’ the requirements is
the settler’s got to git him a garden grow-
in’, ain’t it? Well, we got one. An’ the
Wilkses ain’t. An’, dag-nab it, they ain’t
goin’ to grow wheat an’ tomateys an’ but-
ter-beans out of a metal box! So stop
belly-achin’ and git back to work, the two
of ye!”

His words were harsh, but the bitter
medicine cured the ill. There was truth
in what he said. So, putting behind them
all dreams of motorized accomplishment,
the Moseley family once more returned
to the task of making complete and com-
fortable their home at Delta Port.

Dick tackled once more the problem of
running water for their home. This time
he solved it with the aid of Grampaw’s
capable cooperage. A huge tank, set into
the eaves, stored the water. A hand-
pump drew it from the stream. An old,
hollow brass doorknob, pierced with drill-
holes, secured to the end of the ’fresher
pipe, made an excellent spray for the
shower.

Grampaw worked his farm ferociously;
Mom and Eleanor and Moira spent hours
in the kitchen, jarring and preserving the
produce he was now harvesting. Bobby’s
chores piled up till it seemed he had scarcely
any time left for playing. He was en-
joying himself, though. It was fun feeling
that his efforts were helping toward put-
ting the Wilkes where they belonged.

Moira seemed to be thriving on this
pioneer life, too. She had developed a
sudden love for the country; even after
a hard day’s work she would set out, al-
most every evening, for a tramp about
the countryside. She didn’t show very
good sense about it, though, for like as
not she’d go out all be-doodled up in a
dress and high-heeled shoes, and come back
flushed and excited and hardly caring that
she was ruining her best clothes.

Once Bobby decided to go walking with
her, but she slipped away before he could
announce his intention. He lost her down
by the river-bank, and since an hour of

CASTAWAYS

sun and dusk remained, decided to go
swimming. He had been in the water
but a few minutes when the brush parted
and there was Junior Wilkes.

“Hello,” said Junior.

“Hello, yourself,” said Bobby.

Junior said, “I’m looking for Red.”
“Well, he’s not here.” Bobby continued
paddling. The brush crackled and he
thought Stinky had gone. He looked up,
suddenly feeling loneliness close in upon
him. But the other boy was still there.
He was hesitantly fumbling at his shirt-
buttons. Bobby said, “You can come in
if you want to. I guess this river don’t
belong to nobody.”

T HEY swam together for quite a while,
neither wanting to break the silence.
It would be, thought Bobby vaguely, an
act of disloyalty. To Pop and Dick and
the family. Of course, if Junior spoke
first. . . .

When they were dressing, each on his
own side of the river, Junior spoke. He
said, “You ever play quoits any more?”

“All the time,” said Bobby airily. He
hadn’t laid a hand on the quoits since that
afternoon. “We have a lot of fun,” he
said.

“Well, so do we,” said Junior. He
added, “Anyway, I can have your quoits’
run after you leave Eros. My Dad said
so.”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting,”
snorted Bobby. “I guess I’ll be living in
your big house after you go away.”

“It’s a nicer house than yours!”

“Did I say it wasn’t?” Bobby had seen
it. It was a beauty. But why not, with
the limitless power of an atomic machine
to supply the labor of creating plastic,
operate the lifts and perform all the hard
manual labor? “You ought to see our
garden, though. We’ve got corn and beans
and all sorts of things.”

“No kidding?” Junior looked hungry.
But he shook his head. “Synthos suit me
exactly! I’d rather eat them than any
home-grown stuff.”

“1 bet!” scoffed Bobby. He had fin-
ished dressing. He turned awkwardly.
“Well — see you!” he said.

“Tomorrow night,” said Junior. And,
shucks, that was a date. He couldn’t
break it, after that, even if he had only

OF EROS 79

been being polite. And it sort of got to
be a habit to swim together for a little
while every evening. He didn’t tell Pop
because Pop would be mad. And Junior
didn’t tell his old man, because he knew
he’d get whaled. . . .

A ND THE weeks raced by on eager
feet. Until one day, shortly after
breakfast, Bobby went out to see how clear
the weather was, so he could go fishing;
looked heavenward — and came racing back
into the house.

“Pop!” he yelled. “Dick! A ship!
I think it’s the Patrol sliip. Coming here !”

They came running. And it was the
Patrol ship. It circled high above them
like a giant eagle, then, with a flat, flooding
thunder of jet-fire, dropped to rest in a
field between the properties of the two
feuding clans.

VI

T HE COMMANDER of the Patrolship
Sirius was Lt.-Col. Travers, third
ranking officer of the Belt Fleet. He shook
Pop’s hand heartily.

“Glad to meet you, Dr. Moseley. I’ve
heard so much about you, I feel as if I
already know you. My nephew was a
student in several of your classes at Mid-
land U. He said you were a very capable
instructor . . . and if I may judge from
what we noted from above, I might add
that you are an extremely capable colonist
as well as professor.”

Pop wriggled. “Why — why, thank you,
Colonel.”

“This fine farmland,” smiled the space
officer, “and that artesian well I see across
the river . . . these silos, and your mag-
nificent dwelling. . .

Pop hrrumphed, even more embar-
rassed.

“Colonel,” he faltered, “I think I’d better
explain immediately that all is not mine.
There are two groups of claimants to this
planetoid. Ourselves and a family named
Wilkes. Martians. Our property is here ;
theirs is across the river. I — uh — here
comes Wilkes now.”

Travers’ brow furrowed.

“Indeed ? Then he was right, after all !”
“He? Who?”

The question was answered by the ap-

PLANET STORIES

80

pearance of a man in drill space-gear who
stepped from the Sirius. A lean and
capable-appearing man, hard-bitten of fea-
ture, shrewd of eye and tight of lip.
Colonel Travers said, “Dr. Moseley, per-
mit me to introduce Mr. Wade, survey
scout of the United Ores Corporation.”

Wade acknowledged the introduction
with a crisp nod. Then, “What’s this
about there being two claimants to Eros?”
He turned to the ship’s commander.
“This makes a difference, doesn’t it.
Colonel ? My information was correct.
Therefore it becomes your duty to make
a final, exhaustive study of the settlers’
accomplishments right now. And in the
event their projects have not been com-
pleted in accordance with the provisions of
the Squatter’s Rights Code, Section 103A,
Paragraphs vii to xix, inclusive — ”

Eleanor whispered nervously, “What
does he mean, Dick? What is he talking
about?” and Dick nodded tightly. “I
think I know.” He stepped forward.
“I take it, Mr. Wade, that the U.O.C. has
filed a claim on the possession of Eros in
the event that our settlement projects
should not satisfy the inspector’s require-
ments ?”

“Quite right, young man. And I might
add — ” Wade was openly hostile. “I
might add that I have obtained permission
to accompany Colonel Travers on his in-
spection tour. In order to verify his
findings. If I am not satisfied — ”

“That will do, Mr. Wade!” Colonel
Travers was under orders to treat his
passenger as a guest; there was no obliga-
tion that he like the ore scout. The glint
in his eye, the set of his jaw, indicated
the direction in which his sympathy lay.
“I am quite capable of handling this. Ah
• — Good day, sir ! Mr. Wilkes, I presume ?”

“Howdy, Skipper. Yeah, I’m Sam
Wilkes.” The rival settler glanced around
swiftly, sensed the overtones of enmity,
glared at Pop suspiciously. “What’s
wrong here? Has Moseley been squawk-
in’ about — ?”

“Dr. Moseley informed us that you and
he were both claimants to Eros. There-
fore I shall immediately visit your two
establishments in order to determine which,
if either of you, has the better justified
his claim.

“Lieutenant Thrainell, you will serve as

my aide. We wiH first inspect Dr. Mose-
ley’s habitation,”

T HUS it began. Pop took the two
Patrolmen and the civilian critic to
Delta Port, pointed out with pride the
many things accomplished within the past
months. He met, in Col. Travers, an
admiring audience. The commander was
outspokenly delighted with what he saw.

“Gad, man! You did all this without
power? This is the pioneering feat of the
decade ! Look, Lieutenant ! Running
water . . . chinaware . . . that furniture!
Marvelous! You deserve a wealth of
credit, Doctor.”

“But,” pointed out Wade caustically,
“you mentioned the biggest fault your-
self.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wade?”
“Without power!” snapped Wade.
“Moseley, where are your lights ? Where’s
your power plant? How about heat?
And this cooking equipment • — ■ it’s
aboriginal !”

Pop said stiffly, “We have no hypatomic,
sir. But you will notice that we have
devised satisfactory substitutes for power-
driven gear. Hand-pumps draw our
water, light is supplied by these oil-float
lamps, our house is centrally heated by
these open fire-places. We are — ” He
faltered. “We shall, of course, order a
complete hypatomic unit from Earth, install
it as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid that’s not quick enough,”
sneered Wade. “Colonel Travers will un-
doubtedly remember the requirements of
the law in that respect ‘Claimant must
display, at time of inspection, a power-
plant of atomic, motor, or hydraulic drive
capable of generating a minimum of 3,000
Legerling units per diem, and so arranged
as to provide dwellings and other struc-
tures with heat, light and power.’ You
have no such equipment, have you, Dr.
Moseley ?”

“No, but—”

“You have not, then?”

“No.”

“Very well, then.” Wade smiled
thinly, closed the black book in which he
had been jotting notes with a plushy
sound of finality. “May I suggest, Colonel,
that we see the other claimant’s plantation ?”
After they had left, Colonel Travers

CASTAWAYS OF EROS 81

shaking his head regretfully at Pop a3 if
to say he was sorry but helpless before
the arguments of this interloper, Pop sat
down and propped his chin on his fists.
Yesterday he had looked like a man of
thirty; all of sudden he looked old and
weary and discouraged. He said, “Well,
there it is, Martha. I’ve dreamed my
dream, and now it’s over, and I’ve failed.”

“No you haven’t Rob. The Colonel is
on our side. He’s a good man. He’ll — ”

“But the law is on Wade’s side. If
our claim is outlawed, Eros will become a
dirty, smoky mining camp. This soft
beauty, these green rolling hills, will echo
with the clatter of blasters. Unless — ”

And suddenly he was again a man of
action. He came to his feet suddenly.

“Mlartha, Eleanor, Dick — everybody !
Get those preserves out of the storage
closet. Grampaw, get the hauler from the
shed. Bobby, you run and tell Sam Wilkes
to keep those inspectors out of his house
for a half hour or so.”

“Why, Pop?” demanded Dick. “What
are you going to do?”

“Do? I’m going to see that Sam
Wilkes gets this planet, that’s what! Oh,
I know — there won’t be any question of
his sharing it with me. He’s too hard and
stiff-necked a man for that. But he’s our
kind of man, with all his faults. A
pioneer with the daring to come to a new
world and try to build it into a home of
his own.

“We’ve known for weeks that all he
needed to justify his claim was a food
supply. Well, by thunder, we’ve got a
food supply! And we’ll give it to him,
lock, stock and barrel, to keep Eros out
of the Corporation’s hands! Now, step,
everybody ! Moira ! Moira — where is that
girl?”

“She stayed down by the river, Pop.”

“Well, find her. Bobby, go tell Sam
Wilkes what I just said!”

Bobby scooted.

H E WAS soaking wet when he got to
the Wilkes’ house. That was because
he took the short-cut, which meant plung-
ing right into the river and swimming
across, clothes and all. The inspectors
and their snoopy companion would have
to take the long route, around the ford.
6— Planet Stories— Winter

Mr. Wilkes wasn’t in the house when
he got there. But Mrs. Wilkes was, and
Ginger, and both gasped as they saw him.
Mrs. Wilkes bustled forward.

“Sweet stars above, child, what are you
doing here? Get those clothes off; you’ll
catch your death of cold. Ginger — go get
one of Junior’s suits — ”

Bobby said, “There’s no time for that,
Mrs. Wilkes. Where’s Fat Sa — I mean,
where’s your husband?”

Ginger said, “Don’t tell him, Ma. He’s
just here to crow because he knows we
can’t pass the inspection requirements — ”

“You — you shut up!” bellowed Bobby.
“You doggone female! You don’t know
anything about it. Mrs. Wilkes, get your
husband. Mom and Sis and the rest will
be here any minute now. They’re — ”

And he explained. His explanation sent
them into a flurry of excitement; there
was even deeper excitement when Sam
Wilkes, hastily summoned, heard the same
story repeated. For once the leathery
corners of his mouth relaxed into some-
thing like a grin. He swore, and slammed
a big hand on his knee.

“You’re old man is going to do that for
us, sonny? Well, hornswoggle my jetsl
And to think I — Junior, go find Red.
Hop it!”

“Red’s not around. Pa. He went
toward the river.”

“Confound him! Just when we need
him most. Well — I’ll go meet the con-
founded rascals, stall them as long as I
can. And look here, you — what’s your
name ?”

“Bobby.”

"I won’t forget this, Bobby! Not by a
jugfull. If I hadn’t been such a stub-
born, pigheaded old hound, I’d have dick-
ered with your Pa long afore this. There’s
plenty of room on Eros for two families.
Or two dozen!”

Then followed a half hour of labor so
swift that it made all the accomplishments
of the past months seem snail-like by
comparison. Mom and Eleanor arrived,
bearing armloads of canned goods and
preserves ; Grampaw and Dick brought the
hauler across the river on a raft, and piled
high on the hauler were fresh vegetables
that gorged the never-used Wilkes con-
tainers to repletion. It was fast work,
but efficient, And when, about three-

82 PLA NET

quarters of an Earth hour later, Wilkes
came from the lower acreage accompanied
by the two officers and the Corporation
investigator, the job was finished, and a
tired but glowing two-family group
awaited him.

Colonel Travers’ inspection of the food-
supply was perfunctory. It needed not be
otherwise. One glance sufficed to show
that there was in the Wilkes household
enough food to nourish a dozen families
for as many months.

And there was a smile of grim satisfac-
tion on his lips as, turning to his aide, he
said, “Very well, Lieutenant. You may
make a notation that the Wilkes house-
hold has been inspected and found satis-
factory in all respects.” He looked at
Wade purposefully and repeated in a firm
tone. “In ail respects!”

A H, HE WAS no dummy, that Colonel.

Bobby had seen the twinkle in his
eye as he glanced into the preserve closet.
Because, shucks! there wasn’t any mistak-
ing Mom’s way of doing up preserves.
With little red bands around each jar,
and her firm, crabbed handwriting telling
what was inside.

“In all respects!” he said again. And
reached for Sam Wilkes’ pudgy paw.
“Congratulations, Sir! You’ve earned
possession of the planetoid Eros. Your
power-plant is among the finest it has
ever been my pleasure to view; you have
undeniably cleared and planted the required
number of acres, your food supply is well
above the minimum requirements — ”

“But see here !” Wade’s face was an ugly
red. “I’m not satisfied, Colonel. There’s
something fishy about this. The farmlands
we inspected were barely out of the seed
stage. The corn was only knee high, the
vegetables mere sprouts. These people
couldn’t have raised all this produce — ”
Sam Wilkes spluttered helplessly, “Why
I— I—”

And Pop came to his rescue. Smoothly.
Suavely.

“But he did, Mr. Wade. On the farm-
lands across the river. Those are the
early crops; the ones you’ve just seen are
the late harvest.”

“But — but you claimed those were your
crops !”

STORIES

“Did I?” Pop stroked his chin thought-
fully. “Well, maybe I was bragging a
little. You see, I’ve been working for Mr.
Wilkes. A sort of share-cropper, you
might say.”

“Now I get it!” howled the angry scout.
“I thought so. It’s skullduggery, that’s
what it is ! Don’t you see, Colonel ? These
men are conspiring to defraud us. To
cheat the Corporation. Moseley had delib-
erately given his crops and food-supply to
Wilkes—”

There was again a twinkle in the
Colonel’s eye. He said, soberly, “And
suppose you’re right, Wade? What then?
There’s no law against a man giving away
his possessions to another man, is there?

“As an inspector for the Solar Space
Patrol, my only interest is in seeing that
a settler’s domain fulfills the requirements
of the Squatter’s Rights Code. Mr. Wilkes
has fulfilled those requirements. I am
not interested in the how or why. There-
fore, under the power invested in me by
the Triune Planetary Government, I hereby
decide and award — ”

And then a crafty brilliance illumined
Wade’s eyes.

“Stop!” he cried.

Colonel Travers hesitated. “Pardon, Mr.
Wade?”

“Since you are such a stickler for duty,
Colonel, I wish to call to your attention
a further stipulation of the Squatter’s
Rights Code. One you have evidently
forgotten. The Code says. Section 115B,
Paragraph iii, ‘Such requirements having
been fulfilled, it shall be lawful to award
the settled property to any family group
comprised of at least six adults who pledge
intention to make the property their per-
manent home — ’ ”

Sam Wilkes said, “Well, what’s the mat-
ter. Don’t we intend to make Eros our
permanent home?”

“I have no doubt of it, Mr. Wilkes.
But I regret to inform you that you will
not be able to do so, since you do not
fulfill this last-mentioned paragraph.”

“There’s six of us!” defended Wilkes
stoutly.

“But the law,” insisted Wade, “requires
six adults! May I ask, Mr. Wilkes, how
many of your family are more than twenty-
one years of age!”

CASTAWAYS

D ICK whistled softly. Pop’s jaw
dropped. Wilkes’ face turned crim-
son. And Bobby computed hastily. This
was the final, devastating blow. The
Wilkes household contained only four
adults; Old Man Wilkes, Sam and his
wife, and Red. Junior and Ginger were
just kids.

With sudden regret, Bobby realized that
they should have arranged their conspiracy
in reverse. There were six adults in the
Moseley clan, Moira having just celebrated
her twenty-first birthday. But it was too
late for that now. As friendly as Colonel
Travers was, he could not openly coun-
tenance a flagrant, deliberate transference
of all property to the Moseleys.

So their last, desperate ruse had failed.
And now none of them would win owner-
ship of Eros. All their lovely hopes and
dreams had been in vain; their new-found
friendship with the Wilkes a dying ges-
ture. . . .

Wade could not restrain himself from
elaborating on the situation.

“So, my friends,” he chuckled, “your
deceit wins its proper reward. Under the
circumstances, I shall not do what I had
earlier planned on doing. I was going to
give each of you, with the Corporation’s
compliments, a fitting reward for having so
diligently opened up this new colony. Now
I see no reason for so doing.

“In the future, it might be well to
remember the law provides many loop-
holes to the ingenious man. That is a
hard lesson, but a fair one. Were you
but six adults — ”

And then there was a sudden stir at the
doorway. A deep, rumbling, familiar voice.
That of Red Wilkes.

“You crow mighty loud for a bantam
rooster, Mister!” he said. “But you’re
crowing at a false dawn. Because it so
happens that we are six adults. As a
matter of fact, we’re more than six
adults. There are ten of us!”

Wade spun, shocked. The others
looked, too, and in all eyes there was sur-
prise. All, that is, but Ginger. She was
hugging her knees, rocking back and forth
comfortably, looking very much pleased
with herself and with the world in gen-
eral. She said, “I knew it. I knew it all
the time.”

“Knew what?” said Bobby, but his ques-

OF EROS 83

tion was lost in Wade’s irate demand.

“Ten of you? What are you talking
about ? Who is this young whipper-
snapper ?”

“That,” said Sam Wilkes conversation-
ally, “is my son. And I’d be careful if I
was you, Mister. The last guy who called
him names is still pickin’ up teeth. Son,
I reckon you know what the hell you’re
talkin’ about. But the rest of us don’t
So if you’d please explain — ?”

R ED WILKES grinned. He said,
“Moira, honey.” And Moira entered
from the porch. There was a smile on her
face and somehow there was a smile in her
eyes, too, and Bobby got the strange feel-
ing that if you could see inside her, there’d
be a smile in her heart. She looked at
Mom, and Mom gave a little gasp, like
she could tell just by looking at Moira
what Moira meant. Red Wilkes continued
to grin. He said, “Colonel, commanders
of space vessels have the privilege of
marrying folks, haven’t they?”

“Why — why, yes,” said Travers.

“Then,” said Red mildly, “how’d you
like to get out the litle black book and
start tying knots? Because, you see,
Moira has told me she’s willing to take a
chance.”

Pop said, “Moira, darling, you’re not
just doing this because . . . because. . .

“No, Pop. I’m doing it because I
want to. Because I love Red and he loves
me. It’s been that way since the day we
met. We — we’ve been meeting secretly for
the past six weeks. We meant to break
the news sooner or later. And now seems
to be about the best time.”

“Particularly,” pointed out the groom-
to-be, “since our marriage turns two fam-
ilies into one family. And I think that will
spike your guns, Mr. Wade?”

Wade was no longer crimson. He was
purple. “You can’t do this, Colonel!” he
screamed. “It’s illegal. Anyway, they
won’t be truly related. The two families
will just be in-laws — ”

But there was an open, admiring grin
on the lips of Lieutenant-Colonel Travers,
S.S.P. He said, “Maybe I can’t do it,
Mr. Wade — but by the Pleiades, I’m going
to! And as for the law — according to all
decisions I’ve ever read, in-laws are valid
relatives. You’re the one who was yelping

84 PLANET

about the law providing many loopholes
for ingenious men. Well, here’s a big,
juicy loophole. How do you like it?”

Wade, howled, “I protest! It’s unfair!
I refuse to allow — ”

Red Wilkes looked at his father hope-
fully. ‘’Shall I, Pop?” he asked.

And Sam Wilkes shook his head. “No,
son. It ain’t fittin’. Not on your wedding
day.”

Which gave Dick an idea. He rose,
grimly.

“It’s not my wedding day !” he said.
“Wade—”

But somehow Mr. Wade had vanished.
Toward tire ship.

A FTERWARD, Colonel Travers lin-
gered to shake hands all around.

“I commend you both,” he said, “for the
fine spirit you have shown; the fine work
you’ve done in making Eros a member of
the Solar family. You prove what I have
always claimed — that the pioneer spirit in
Man is not dead, nor will it ever die so
long as there remain new frontiers to
conquer.

“Well, I must go now. But I’ll stop
back by here on my next swing around
the Belt. Perhaps a year from now, per-
haps a little less. I’ll bring the things you
ask for. A new motor, some cloth, sil-
verware — I have your list.”

“Don’t forget the books, said Pop.

STORIES

“I won’t.” The Captain made a note.

“And the seeds.” That was Old Man
Wilkes.

“No. I’ll bring them.”

“And bring,” said Moira, “a teething
ring.”

Eleanor said, “Oh, nonsense, Moira!
In another year The Pooch will be too
old for teething rings.’*

“Bring,” said Moira doggedly, “a teeth-
ing ring.” And blushed.

Bobby blushed, too. It was, he thought,
indecent of Moira to be so brazen. And
her only married! Golly, did she have to
look so far ahead? And, anyway, with
Ginger standing right there. . . .

He said, “Hey, Stinky, how about a
game of quoits?”

“Suits,” said Junior.

And Ginger said, “Me, too.” She put
her hand in Bobby’s. She said, with alarm-
ing frankness, “I like you! Maybe I’ll
let you be my beau.”

Bobby shook loose. He said, “Aw, you
darn girls — ”

But she had her way. She played quoits
with him and Junior. And she won. Which
may have been symbolic, though it didn’t
occur to Bobby that way. Maybe she
would always have her way. And maybe
she would always win — whatever she
wanted.

Yet for a while there would be peace
on Eros. . . . ,

YOU BUY WAR BONDS

WAR BONDS KEEP WORKERS WORKING
WORKERS KEEP THE SOLDIERS FIGHTING
THE SOLDIERS FIGHT FOR YOUR FREEDOM
YOU GET FOUR BUCKS FOR EVERY THREE YOU PAY

HOW CAN YOU LOSE?

* ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Space was a ravine hell of raw energy.

86

The Star Guardsman

By ALBERT DePINA

Europa was the only sanctuary for Earth’s doomed millions. Yet
to hold it, Mark Lynn had to fight his traitorous Overlords. And
he was destined to lose — for his weapons were antiquated, his
allies a fragile peaceful race.

OUR BUSINESS?”

The Martian Proctor’s parch-
ment-like face was blank as he
examined Lynn’s pass-card impassively. .

“Since when are Internationals given
explanations?” Mark Lynn’s dark green
eyes glowed. “I’ve been given none.”

“In the Council Hall, humility’s essen-
tial.” The tall Martian drew himself erect,
arrogantly.

“See that you observe it, then.” Lynn
barked laconically and turning entered the
tube, while the violet-eyed Planetarian
gasped in incredulity.

87

88 PLANE T

When the door of the tube in which he’d
been transported opened silently, Mark
Lynn found himself before a blank, pol-
ished wall of Beryloy, but as he stepped
before it, the wall slid aside to reveal an
austere room of dura-plon whose walls
were buckled in places, as if they’d endured
tremendous pressure ; part of the room was
marked off by beryloy cables, where a
bas-relief of man’s progress had crumbled
to the floor and had not been removed as
yet. The ceiling seemed uneven, the pol-
ished expanse of floor was asymmetrical.

Across an enormous desk, now covered
by a plotting chart, a figure dressed in the
purple uniform of a scientist, with the
golden cord of the Psychologists, gazed
at him placidly out of level hazel eyes.

The short-cropped hair that escaped the
confines of the tight, silver kepis, was
golden-brown, unruly, and the oval face
freckle-sprinkled had the serious expres-
sion of a precocious child.

M ARK regarded the girl gravely,
startled at her youth, although being
accustomed to female scientists her sex
did not surprise him. He remained silent,
as the etiquette of 2,022 demanded when
before the ruling class.

“You’ve made a characteristic beginning.
Spacer Lynn,” the girl observed coldly and
gestured toward a visi-screen at her side.
“Was it necessary to leave the Proctor
frothing ?”

“At the moment, yes!” Mark replied
evenly. “Martian arrogance annoys me,
scientist.”

The girl frowned slightly. “I’m Doctor
Fortun,” she stated after a pause. “The
Council has decided to honor you with a
mission. It is a problem particularly
suited to your . . . er . . . talents; your
record shows a rare agility of mind im-
possible to find among Civicans.”

“That’s because controls one, six and
fifteen failed to affect me,” Mark said
smiling, unconsciously displaying mag-
nificent teeth, dazzling against the back-
ground of his space-tanned features.

“Because you’re a . . .” the girl began
irritably and then checked herself. “No
matter, Spacer Lynn.”

STORIES

“Why not finish it?” Mark sat down,
stretching long, sinewy legs until he
sprawled relaxed and loose- jointed, so that
it seemed even his magnificent muscles
would never be able to lift the great body.
“Atavistic, is the word.” Fie grinned en-
gagingly and hooded his eyes slightly as
he appraised Doctor Fortun with undis-
guised admiration.

The young scientist reddened, but she
continued in a quiet voice.

“You were selected because you evolved
the expedient of taking Internationals on
space exploration, in defiance of the Council
Law that no International can serve more
than two years in one position, by simply
shifting them to different levels of work
on the Spacers, where they would be un-
likely to contact each other, and, inciden-
tally, managed to keep yourself as a Spacer
long after your term had expired.

“Your record shows also that you cir-
cumvented the non- voting status of Inter-
nationals by organizing Civicans into
groups to vote for the interests of Inter-
nationals in exchange for confidential in-
formation on planetary resettlement, so
that they could obtain choice localities. . . .”

“There a fundamental necessity of call-
ing worn-out laws to the attention of the
Council by evasion, when they refuse to
listen,” Mark explained affably.

Doctor Fortun straightened angrily, her
hazel eyes gold-bright with annoyance.
“You were not summoned to discuss revi-
sion of existing laws,” she flashed. “That
impudence of yours hardly becomes. . . .”
She was at a loss for words. Belonging as
she did to the highest hereditary rank in
the realm, the smiling assurance of Spacer
Lynn, three ranks beneath her, and his
frank insolence was a new experience to
the girl.

Mark Lynn laughed joyously. The ad-
miration in his eyes deepened.

“Thank the eternal stars !” He ex-
claimed.

“Have you gone mad ?” The girl’s voice
was tight with fury. “Dare you laugh
at a scientist?”

“Not, not mad — merely happy! First
the Council calls me because being Inter-
national and beyond Civican control my
individualism and my freedom of action

THE STAR GUARDSMAN

are useful; you, of course, approve.
Then when I show those very qualities,
you’re furious. And, I'm happy because
. . .” his voice dwindled.

“Yes, go on !” Her words were sheathed
in velvet, but her eyes were feral, like
flaming topaz.

“Because it’s paradoxical and shows
you’re still a woman — lovelier than any
I’ve ever seen,” he finished almost in a
whisper.

D octor fortun looked as if she

were about to slap his face. Remem-
bering the dignity of a scientist in time,
she gazed at Mark Lynn with a mixture
of feelings. Finally, something of his
infectious good-nature, of his open admira-
tion touched her and she laughed quietly.

“You are right, Spacer Lynn,” she
acknowledged. “For a moment I forgot
I was a Psychologist — it’s a quality about
you that for an instant made me feel less
a scientist and more a . . . but never mind.
We’ll be together for the Deity knows how
long, and it’s futile to begin by quarrelling.
Lean forward so you can see this chart.
I’ll explain.”

“We’ll be together, did you say?” Mark
was delighted. “Then give me a dozen
problems !”

“Yes,” she replied dubiously. “As a
Psychologist I’ll be part of the expedition.
You’ll find that this one problem will be
more than enough.” The girl pressed a
button on her desk and one of the undam-
aged walls began to glow until it became
an astro-map, a reproduction of charted
space. Each planet was indicated in rela-
tive size, and in the lower center, pulsing
angrily a thin red line marked “Comet”
seemed to be approaching inferior con-
junction with Terra.

“Is that the problem ?” Mark asked.
“Simple! When it enters Terra’s orbit,
life on Terra ceases. Evacuation’s the
only possible solution. I knew that comet
was approaching, but not being an Astron-
omer I didn’t compute its trajectory. Be-
sides, being on Io is like being in exile —
news hardly ever reaches us there. Will it
destroy Terra completely?”

“No, not entirely. At first, indications
were that it would enter the orbit of our
system at such an angle that Terra would

89

be destroyed. However, we’ve checked
with the observatories on Pluto since then,
and it has been determined that it will
merely enter the field of attraction suffi-
ciently to shift the axis to opposition. Of
course, this will render Terra unfit for
habitation . . . perhaps for a century or
two . . . therefore, as you realized, evacua-
tion’s the answer.”

“I’m listening,” Mark said earnestly, as
the magnitude of the problem before them
struck him. However, you’re aware I’m
not an astronomer, and the technique of
evacuation could best be handled by the
Council itself. I’m afraid I still don’t
quite see what my role’s to be. . . . But
whatever it is, I’m ready.”

“Turn your attention to this plotitng
chart,” Doctor Fortun indicated the map
on her desk. “These areas marked in
red have already been affected. Tremors
have increased and volcanic openings are
occurring in these and these areas, never
dangerous before. While you were on Io
awaiting orders for another exploratory
journey, we began to attempt resettle-
ment of our Civic ims and Ruralians on
other Planets — even giving them their
choice of occupations and of planets. . . .
quite a concession you must agree.”

“Quite !” The irony in his voice seemed
to escape her,

f tNJ IT E HAVE succeeded in resettling
VV two-thirds of Terra’s population
on Mars and Venus, and a limited number
on Mercury; this last world only offered
limited space at best in its twilight zone,
and it was necessary to construct sub-
terrenean cities beneath its dark side —
the frigid half — but that’s another problem.
Now, however, Venus refuses to accept
any more Terrans and Mars has also
closed its doors to us. Under existing
treaties they have no right to exclude Ter-
rans, but we’re hardly in a position to
enforce them now.”

“Hardly!” Lynn agreed sardonically.

“The problem’s further complicated by
the innate characteristics of this remain-
ing third,” Doctor Fortun paused, and
gazed very intently into the dark green
eyes of the Spacer before she resumed.

“They’re for the most part interna-
tionals, ruralians who originally refused to
undergo controls one and six, and were

90 PLANET

not condemned to Power Reserve because
of the increasing need for Vitaminic Flora,
as you no doubt know that vibroponics, due
to some peculiarity of the radiations are
greatly deficient in certain vitamins. The
balance are Planetarians from throughout
the system who flatly refuse to be repa-
triated. And, last but certainly not least,
religious and philosophic groups — the
former, fanatical believers in ancestrals
and atavistic cults, who chose to regard
this cosmic tragedy as a manifestation of
Divine Wrath and devote their time to
frenzied, masochistic meetings and re-
vivals. The latter have turned stoic, and
choose to see nothing in our civilization
worth living for, claiming that all incentive
has been removed, consequently, they
prefer to meet their fate on Terra. In
short, this last third is completely in-
tractable.”

“I’m amazed the Councirs taken no
measures!” Mark exclaimed.

“Oh, measures have been taken, of
course. The philosophers have had rank
and prerogatives — even when they had
scientific honors — nullified. The religious
groups have had their food allowance re-
duced to the starvation point and all their
privileges recalled. The Internationals
. . .” here she paused again as she regarded
Mark, “since they’re free-thinkers, and the
most dangerous of the lot, were ordered to
report for control-treatment under penalty
of death. They promptly took to the fast-
nesses in the mountains and deserts by
the millions, and are existing on game and
vegetables to be found in the now aban-
doned regions. They are armed for the
most part.”

Mark Lynn was openly grinning now,
but the girl chose to ignore it and con-
tinued :

“Unfortunately, our armed forces are
too busy keeping order in the new resettle-
ments, or they would have been subdued
long ago. The resettlements have been
supplied with seed, tools, cattle, metallic
substances, concentrated fuel, machinery
... in fact, everything necessary for a
successful evacuation. This last group
would have been similarly supplied, they
were even given a reprieve for their in-
subordination and offered special terms —
the Council can be munificent!” For an
instant her voice rang with exaltation.

STORIES

“But they absolutely refuse evacuation,
except. . .

“Except what ?” Lynn was all attention,
sensing that this was the core of the prob-
lem.

“Except on their own terms !” The
young scientist exclaimed with a trace of
bitterness.

“But why don’t you permit them to de-
cide what manner of death they’re to have ?
What possible interest Can the Council
have in what to them is an atavistic, in-
transigent group that detests our system
of planned existence? If the prospect of
a continuation of this civilization gags
them, even in another planet, then obviously
their choice to remain and die here should
be respected.” Mark’s voice was very soft.

The limpid hazel eyes of the girl mir-
rored her shock at Mark’s words.

“Impossible ! It would be horribly
wasteful. And, a distinct failure on the
Council’s part. Those lives can be useful
— the Council never fails!”

“Amen !” Mark Lynn exclaimed
archaically. “And where do I come in?”

The irony of his present situation didn’t
escape him. That he, an International, a
strata of the highly complex social order
considered most dangerous, should be called
in to solve a problem of such magnitude,
involving (of all people) Internationals
and intransigents, would have been fan-
tastic to anyone not acquainted with the
subtle and at times Machiavellian meth-
ods of the Council,

D OCTOR FORTUN handed him a
rolled, tissue-thin, metallic cylinder
for an answer.

“Those are your orders from the Coun-
cil,” she said soberly. “I’m but an agent,
as you know. Just one among the scien-
tists who will be in charge upon arrival.
Do not read it now. It is final. Take
this card, it’s a permit to enter a scientific
News-Casting Booth and scan all available
data for the past year. We know that out
of the remaining third, roughly three or
four hundred million at best will be trans-
portable. The balance are far too old to
withstand the journey — their power poten-
tial is negligible, and in any case, they’d
much rather die than leave. But it’s the
three or four hundred million trans-
portables who are highly useful for the

THE STAR

particular purpose of the Council, that
we must ... or rather,” she smiled faintly,
“you must convince.” She opened a
drawer and extracted a gleaming metal
disk. “These credits will be ample,” she
said, extending it to Mark.

Lynn’s eyes widened. “Ten thousand
credits? I’ve had to work as many years
for that amount!”

“Doctor Fortun smiled. “May you live
to spend them, Spacer Lynn,” she said
cryptically. “Greetings !”

Mark Lynn wanted to speak, to ask her
social name, anything that would delay his
departure from her office. But he knew
the interview was at an end even before
she turned to the mass of figures and data
on her desk.

Spacer Lynn threw a rapid glance
around the room. They were still alone,
but he knew that the entire interview had
been minutely recorded — the august body
of scientists of the first order who com-
posed the Council took no chances, espe-
cially with Internationals, the adventurers,
the pioneers who opened up new worlds
for the maddeningly impersonal efficiency
of the Council to take over and remold. But
Mark didn’t care. There was little that
they didn’t know about him, in detail.

Mark Lynn in common with a few
million others was a product of his time
and station. One of the immense legion
of war orphans that the constant and in-
creasingly destructive warfare of the twen-
tieth and twenty-first centuries had left
behind, he was automatically a ward of
the Executive Council.

Now that wars had finally been abol-
ished as wasteful and inefficient, the ulti-
mate goal of the social order was
“Achievement.” It had become a religion.
It was instilled into infantile minds with
the first toddling steps; it was propagated
through a thousand subtle means ; it was a
constant threat in the background of every
living being under the government of
Terra. Achievement was the inexorable
law. It might mean producing so many
tons of vitaminic flora during a span of so
many years, or perhaps the production of
metallic substances, or the exploration of
so many worlds, as in Mark’s case. Re-
gardless of the task imposed, its final,
successful and unequivocal completion was
the “Achievement’ for that particular be-

GUAMtDSMAN 91

ing. And, woe unto him who failed to
achieve !

In Mark Lynn’s case, having been given
over to the International Police for train-
ing as an astrogator and having finished
his course with brilliant honors, he had
been given a first-class exploration rating,
and trained in outer space navigation.
Years of successful interplanetary and
outer space exploration and research had
given him an unequaled experience as an
explorer. It was his duty to give the
Council implicit obedience — and to reserve
his thinking for the problems of unex-
plored worlds and outer space. The Coun-
cil, Rulers of the World State, frowned
on thinking without directives, especially
by those beyond control, such as the Inter-
nationals, of which Mark Lynn was a great
' leader.

T HINKING led to individualism, and
the latter to conflict of opinions,
eventually to become conflict of a far more
deadly sort. The recent past was an un-
erasable record of promiscuous thinking;
it had brought too many problems, social
and economic— it was wasteful, slipshod
and inefficient. So it became a matter of
unalterable policy to train each individual
rigidly in that station in life to which he
was best fitted, where he or she could
function with maximum efficiency toward
achievement. It became essential to apply
control “one,” which instilled into the
mental patterns a dreadful guilt of waste
— whether of energy, credits or time, much
as the ancient Puritans lived in the fear
of their consciences and could never be
comfortable or enjoy frivolous moments or
leisure. Control “six” became an obsession
to achieve, subtly replacing the emotional
complex of what in an earlier day was
called “ambition,” until nothing, literally
nothing could stand before that one, all-
important goal. And finally, control
“fifteen” became an absolute need for guid-
ance, a pattern that subtly replaced the
instinct for security of the nineteenth and
twentieth cenuries, so that all problems,
all crises were solved by the Council. An
attempt to make individual solutions, re-
sulted in an awful sense of “aloneness,” of
absolute insecurity that could drive a
civican or ruralian to the verge of a
psychosis. There were other controls,

92 PLANET

some major and some minor, but these
three, one, six and fifteen, were the three
imperatives. Mark Lynn was impervious
to them — he had to be to belong to the
Internationals.

W ITH the sealed cylinder in an inner
pocket of his tunic, that boasted a
golden sun embroidered on the chest, Mark
left the building and made his way
through the milling crowds in the streets.
They were all hurrying to some individual
task — office workers in the black gowns
of their calling; artisans with wide, tooled
belts. The violet-eyed Martian proctors
who acted as guards, and the tiny, slen-
der Venusians, with their vari-colored
wings and melodious voices. Scientists of
the various orders were hurrying to the
transportation belts, while technicians in
their bright blue tunics went in and out
of different buildings. There was no con-
fusion, no disorder, despite the evident
haste.

Shops were closed, deserted or wrecked
by earthquakes. Many buildings were in
partial ruins, others had huge cracks along
the sides. Yet, from the public visi-
screens posted along the street came
glimpses of beautiful scenes and soft,
seductive music. A light powdery snow
was falling, and the wind danced a sara-
band unchecked.

“Weather control stations must have
failed,’’ Mark said inwardly, and breathed
deeply, gratefully, the keen, icy freshness
of the wind.

An old woman, a ruralian carrying a
huge bundle, spied him and eagerly grasped
his arm. “Greetings, International ! Pray
give an old woman information ! I’ve
farmed my allotment and achieved ten
years ahead of my plan, and now they
tell me I must move to Venus! I don’t
mind the moving — though I mistrust
those winged creatures — but I’m old and
very tired. Does my moving mean I’ll
have another allotment to achieve ? Must I
clear Venusian land? Tell me Interna-
tional, if I’m assigned to a freighter, will
the gravs be likely to shorten what re-
mains of my life-span?”

Mark laughed at the loud avalanche
of questions. “Peace, Ruralian,” he
managed through' his laughter. “I doubt
if you’ll be required to achieve another

STORIES

allotment. Didn’t the government grant
you sufficient credits for a new start?”

The ruralian woman pulled out a pack-
age of rank, Venusian cigarets and con-
tentedly puffed on one after lighting it.
“Yes, when the earth-temblors ruined my
land and a mouth of fire finished it, a
proctor came from the Council and gave
me enough credits to last a body a life-
time, then told me to make my way to
transportation. But I can’t bring myself
to spend those credits, International — its
wasteful. ... I’d rather achieve another
allotment. Why, I haven’t bought a thing
for fifty years that I could grow or make
myself !

“I’ve been some time getting here from
the Arizona sector, for the shakes disrupted
the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of
things when another mouth of fire pushed
up where the road was and blew my cart
to the four winds — It’s a miracle I’m here
at all ! But about the freighter, will the
gravs. . . .”

“Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be
given you, in any event. If anything, it’ll
lengthen your span, and the journey will
seem like an overnight trip to you. If you
need directing, a proctor will assist you.
Greetings Ruralian !” Mark tried to make
his tones as kindly as he possibly could, but
realizing the woman was eager to make
conversation, he ended the incident — he was
still on duty.

“Greetings, International,-” she replied
disappointed, and heaved the bundle to her
shoulder.

Mark had not walked ten paces when
instant correlation between his senses, men-
tal synthesis and muscular reaction made
him swerve aside, bending over at the same
time. It had been the horror-shocked ex-
pression in the eyes of a technician barely
three paces before him, that had sent the
Spacer hurtling to one side, half bent over,
bowling pedestrians aside like ten-pins. A
thin pencil of light flashed where Mark’s
head had been seconds before. Mark had
turned without pausing and he saw a tall
International whose yellow tunic bore the
red whorl insignia of a conveyor-road in-
spector.

Mark’s molecular rate was faster than
any other strata, purposely, because of his
calling, and to the spectators it seemed as
if he’d twisted, turned and flung himself

THE STAR GUARDSMAN 93

into a prodigious tackle all in one motion.
The attacking International, fully as tall
as mark, went down under the terrific im-
pact, his atomo-pistol sailing through the
icy atmosphere in a falling arc. But with
the agility of a Martian Hellacorium, he
was up and snarling: “Traitor!” through
clenched teeth. With a cry of baffled fury
he launched himself at Mark unhesitat-
ingly, one hand fumbling at his belt.

But Mark ducked, side-stepping. He
was icy calm now, although the reason for
this attack baffled him. Mark was in his
element in a fight ; the International Police
trained its wards to be fighting machines,
deadly in their efficiency. Explorers had
to be!

II

M ARK wheeled as the attacker hurtled
past him and his straight left went
unerringly to the man’s head, jarring him.
Automatically Mark’s training came to the
fore, as everything else faded until it was
only Spacer Lynn and a murderous enemy.
Mark’s right -was a peg upon which he
hung the attacker’s blasting blow, while
he used the boxer’s left, long and weaving,
throwing it swiftly like a cat sparring with
a mouse dangling by the tail from its teeth.
His left bounced off the attacker’s chin. It
was a little high, but the man rocked on
his heels.

The killer rushed. Mark let his heels
touch the ground, refused to run. The
attacker was too aggressive and eager for
complete defense. Mark caught him with
a left and right and calmly took a mur-
derous hook to the belly without flinching,
then he let his right hand ride, dropping it
like a sledge-hammer. The attacker’s face
seemed to lose contour, its features
blurred as the face went gory; his feet
crossed and his knees went suddenly rub-
bery. The conveyor-road inspector fell
with a crash and didn’t get up.

Mark became suddenly aware that two
Martian proctors flanked him, deadly
atomo-pistols pressing at his sides.

“Silence and obedience, International!
Follow !” came the crisp, laconic order from
the senior proctor.

Instantly a visi-screen lighted and a cold,
imperious voice directed:

“Remove the attacker, dispose as power

reserve. Spacer Lynn proceed on mis-
sion !”

In unison, the two proctors saluted and
the atomo-pistols disappeared. It was the
voice of the Council, through some sub-
ordinate.

“The eyes and ears of the universe!”
Mark Lynn exclaimed ironically in a
whisper. The cometary reaction must have
been psychological as well as physical to
bring about crime in a social order where
for centuries it had disappeared. Or had
it? Mark wondered. How many secrets,
how much factual data the Council kept
from the people? No one would ever
know. But why try to liquidate him ?
He’d just arrived from years in outer space ;
surely he couldn’t possibly have enemies
on Terra! Was his mission known ? And
come to think of it, just what was his mis-
sion actually? Meditatively, he tapped the
cylinder in the inner pocket of his tunic.
Could that have been the motive for the
assault?

ALANTH!” Mark Lynn exclaimed

JL delightedly as he spied a dandified
Martian leaning against a column of
chrysophrase, upon entering the lobby of
the International Police headquarters to
report.

Tall and sinewy-lean, with the exag-
geratedly narrow waist characteristic of
the Martians, Palanth gazed startled at
his companion of many adventures, from
behind a silken square of Venusian-spider
silk drenched in the overpowering fragrance
of Venusian Jasmines. Only the violet
eyes were visible, startling against the
background of his flaming hair.

In the tight-fitting yellow tunic of an In-
ternational, he resembled an ancient, nar-
row-waisted Cretan come to life, but for
the flaming mane and towering height.

“Greetings ! O bird of ill-omen, what
malodorous wind blew you in from outer
space?” He dropped the handkerchief
long enough to reveal chiselled nostrils and
white even teeth as he smiled lieart-warm-
ingly. He placed his left hand on Mark’s
shoulder, in the immemorial gesture Mars
reserved for the closest friends.

“One sec, Planetarian, while I check in,”
Mark grinned also placing his hand on the
Martian’s shoulder, knowing how it an-
noyed the Martian to be called by a lower

94 PLANET

rank. Mark stepped into a booth that
automatically recorded his status as the
visi-screen panel glowed into life.

“Spacer Mark Lynn, Exploratory As-
trogator First Class, reporting. Under
sealed orders from the Supreme Council.
Last station Io. Awaiting further orders.”
In a thousand departments that recorded
global information and checked it in detail
even psychologically, Mark’s words auto-
matically became part of the endless rec-
ord. But there was no answer. The visi-
screen faded to a smouldering green and
went blank.

“Strange!” Mark muttered to himself,
stepping out of the booth. “These orders
must be final.” He touched the slight
bulge made by the cylinder he carried.

Curiosity was beginning to needle him,
but orders from the Council could only be
opened in absolute privacy, especially sealed
orders.

Palanth was waiting for him, the eternal
handkerchief pressed against his nose. A
brilliant panagran, blood-red and flashing
made a deep spot of color against his left
ear-lobe. Everything about him seemed
indolent, aesthetic, super-refined. And the
exquisite fragrances from the known uni-
verse with which he drenched his squares
of silk, thanks to his mania against human
odors, added to the foppish effect.

“Have you come to twist the tail of the
comet, O thou especially not wanted?”

P ALANTH waved his handkerchief dif-
fusing jasmines in the rich austerity of
the lobby, as he lounged back against the
column with a sigh that might have meant
anything. His yellow tunic — as near the
color of gold as he dared, without actually
being the hue reserved for the Supreme
head of the Council, shimmered like
watered silk. His slender hands flashed
with accrincs and calchuites.

“Breath-taking, as usual,” Mark was
grinning from ear to ear, “specially that
godawful jungle fumes you’re soaked in
. . . arrgh ! I can’t breathe !”

“My only defense against you creatures,”
Palanth said languidly. “I need replenish-
ing, Mark, shall we go?”

“Lord, yes. I could eat an Europan.”
Mark checked himself as an odd tight
expression came into his eyes, and his
hand tightened on something hard inside a

STORIES

lower pocket of his tunic. He fell unac-
countably silent for a moment.

Palanth strode beside him with a lithe,
tigerish stride which belied his now for-
gotten languid pose of a few minutes ago.
His deceptive exterior — which many to
their final regret had found could disappear
like lightning, still made him see a Plane-
tarian fop whom the Council permitted
harmless foibles for reasons of their own.

“I never hoped to see you again after
that crash on Europa.” Palanth exclaimed
with a relieved sigh. “You’re so reckless,
Mark, and death is so permanent!”

“Of course, you are not reckless,” Mark
taunted with obvious irony, remembering
how the Martian International could ex-
plode into action like an enraged Martian
Hella. “In your superior wisdom, there’s
no reason to take chances — everything’s
planned in advance, logically, coldly. . . .
Bah. Do you recall that little incident on
Venus when they served you imitation
Thessalian and that little Venusian bag-
gage tried to dope you with . . .”

“Cease! O chattering . . .” Palanth in-
terrupted as near being embarrassed as
it was possible for him to be. The rest
of what he said was buried in the perfumed
handkerchief which he hastily pressed
against his face as they joined the crowds
that filled the avenue.

“But what are you here for? It is per-
missible to know?” Mark asked soberly
at last.

“I may as well tell you,” Palanth said,
his tones muffled by the handkerchief.
“You’d never have the imagination to
guess !”

“You probably have been appointed to
regulate the last batch of outgoing freight-
ers enroute to various space stations, in
order to relieve congestion and ease pres-
sure of transportation. There may be
something else . . . eh?”

“Master mind! But there’s that last
something else that you’d never guess.”

“Inductive reasoning tells me that a
freight coordinator would be assigned to
freight problems ... let me talk . . . but this
seems to be the last time that old Terra
is going to send freight anywhere. I feel
there’s one last measure to be taken against
the unpredictable — something calculated to
checkmate a future result. Oh I know I
sound as if I were talking gibberish,

THE STAR

Palanth, but well . . . it’s still sort of
foggy in my mind. I’ll know more when
I read my orders.”

“I’ve already read mine,” Palanth said
quietly. I’m persuaded they’re not very
different from yours — in the last analysis.
It’s a gigantic game, Mark!”

“Then you know?”

“Yes !” It was almost a whisper, almost
a telepathic assent. “But here’s our energy
center, let’s go on in.”

O NCE WITHIN the vast dining-hall,
known as an Energy Center, they se-
lected a table and from the menu the num-
ber of the meal that suited them, pressing
the numerically corresponding stud on the
panel above the table. The food came on
a conveyor belt that passed beneatly the
floor and emerged from the center of the
table which was hollow and had a panel
that slid aside as the food arrived.

“Well, what have you learned,” Palanth
asked Mark as they began their meal.

Mark Lynn outlined what he knew and
added a few conjectures of his own, and
Palanth’s face split gradually in a wide
grin.

“A pretty mess. . . . How many of you
flesh-eating mammals are there left to
transport . . . the irreconcilables, I mean,
the dissenters.”

“Roughly about five hundred million.
They’re an amazing mixture of Interna-
tionals, Philosophers and Ruralians — the
three most individualistic strata!”

“It would be easier to ray them down,
let the Comet wipe them out in due time,
than to go to all this trouble of persuad-
ing them to evacuate.” Palanth retorted
coldly. “Still, to my Martian mind, they’re
far more valuable than your herds of con-
trolled sheep — at least, they can think for
themselves !”

“However, in a controlled, beneficent
political economy such as the World State,
any such benevolent treatment as raying
them down, or abandoning them to sidereal
extinction is outlawed,” a quiet, mellow
voice said behind them.

Bo tli Mark and Palanth looked up with a
start to see the exquisite oval face with
the serious, limpid hazel eyes of Doctor
Fortun, in her purple scientist tunic.
Palanth rose instantly and bowed, Mark
was but a fraction of a second behind him.

GUARDSMAN 95

“It’s a rare honor for Spacers to enjoy
socially the company of a Scientist,” Mark
said gravely, but his eyes were dancing.

“Probably just as well, if you express
such unorthodox opinions freely,” she re-
plied sitting between them at the table.
“However, we have a long journey ahead,
might as well begin to know each ... as
we really are.” Her smile was an adven-
ture, and when she turned her head to
survey Palanth with frank curiosity, Mark
noted that her hair escaping the tight-fitting
kepis was almost the color of dark honey
in the sun.

“A long journey . . .” Palanth murmured
as he picked absorbedly at something on his
plate that resembled purple pop-corn. “A
long journey, where . . . how, and to what
end?”

“What are you eating?” Doctor Fortun
asked almost too casually, instead of re-
plying.

“These ? Oh, candied violets,” Palanth’s
languid pose had returned aware that many
eyes were upon him in the crowded energy
center.

“Don’t you have enough perfume as it
is without eating it too?” Mark growled.

“Peace, O spawn of unthinkable mis-
fortune!” Palanth said grandly and filled
his mouth with the delicacy.

D OCTOR FORTUN laughed aloud, it
was like the tintinnabulation of clus-
tered silver bells.

“Fraud!” she exclaimed amiably. “If
I were not acquainted with your past rec-
ord I’d think you were a fop. Does that
pose ever fool anybody, Palanth?”

The tall Martian grinned shrugging his
shoulders. “Who knows? It’s been so
long since I've had adventure for a bride!”
He quoted a line from the famous Terran
poet of the twenty-first century.

“He’s done it so long, it’s become second
nature with him,” Mark said inelegantly.
“However, the perfume business is no pose.
Wait till you see his collection of extracts !”

Palanth glared at him, but remained si-
lent. Just then a growing tremor shook
the energy center, and one of the walls
split from floor to ceiling. Their table
fell with a crash and the hum of the food
conveyors ceased. Voices rose in startled
exclamations and the crash of other tables
added to the increasing noise. A convul-

96 PLANET

sive heave rent the floor and the continuous
series of audio-pictures on the visi-screen
ceased abruptly.

After what seemed an eternity, in reality
seconds, the quake subsided, leaving wreck-
age behind and the pale, strained faces of
the guests.

“Even here in North America, the very
heart of the World State, the quakes are
increasing,” Doctor Fortun said thought-
fully. “Our estimates gave us eight more
weeks before the proximity of the comet
neutralized astro-warp evacuation. It
seems hardly possible, but there may be
elements in the situation we have failed to
calculate. I believe the sooner we complete
evacuation the better it’ll be.” She glanced
at Mark speculatively.

“I suggest you read your orders this eve-
ning, once you’re registered at International
House, Spacer Lynn.”

“That’s my plan,” Mark told her. “And
speaking of unknown elements, I’m still
puzzled at being attacked by an Interna-
tional today. I was unaware that I had
enemies on Terra. What could the motive
have been?”

“Attacked?” Palanth was instantly alert.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Mark?”

The Spacer shrugged his shoulders. “It
was a minor incident — only, it’s mystery
bothers me. I’ve been taught there’s no
crime on Terra, and I am too unimportant
for political liquidation.”

“You forget,” Doctor Fortun said softly,
“the profound dislocations brought about
by this unforeseen situation. Two-thirds
of Terra’s population have been evacuated.
Another third — the most intractable, re-
fuses cooperation. There are many sym-
pathizers in high places. In the inevitable
confusion, the efficiency of the World State
has been impaired. What would have been
impossible a few months ago, can happen
now. You’re not only our chief explorer,
but a name to conjure with among Interna-
tionals — your word has never been broken.
Being suspected of having become a sub-
servient tool of the Council is enough for
certain elements to consider you too dan-
gerous to their aims — therefore, guard your
life, Spacer!”

“But I’m not a tool!” Mark exclaimed
fiercely. “My allegiance to the Council
only involves my life — not the lives of

STORIES

others — I’ll not defraud them, dissenters
or not!”

D OCTOR FORTUN smiled quietly, as
if contemplating some inner scene.
The brilliant hazel eyes were veiled and
whatever activity went on behind the
smooth forehead was masked. The con-
fusion within the Energy Center had sub-
sided, and the guests were leaving now in
orderly fashion, but as fast as possible.

“It’s time to exit,” the girl said casually.
“Pity we were interrupted just when we
were beginning to really know each other.”
Suddenly her manner changed as with what
seemed an unconscious gesture she removed
the tight-fitting cap and her hair fell about
her shoulders with the gleaming patina of
dark gold. Her smile had the demure
sweetness of an embarrassed girl, her eyes
were soft and luminous as she gazed first at
Mark and then at Palanth.

“There’s a strato-cruiser of the first or-
der leaving at six for a resort on the gulf
of Mexico — Havanol — it’s perhaps the last
time we’ll have a chance to see it. Shall
we . . .” she hesitated, “shall we dine
there?” Rose mantled her cheeks and her
long lashes swept downwards as she made
the suggestion.

“Havanol !” Mark was enchanted. “Mar-
tian music and food to tempt archangels
. . . but how can you and I enter Havanol ?
It’s open only to special permit!”

“You’re not by any remote chance for-
getting me?” Palanth inquired with
elaborate irony. “I’ve never seen Havanol,
besides, I’m sure Doctor Fortun would like
to use some Parnassin for the occasion.”

“Parnassin ! The perfume of the butter-
fly orchids of Venus! Why, Palanth, it’s
worth more than calchuites — it’s the rar-
est, the most unattainable of extracts !”
Doctor Fortun clasped her hands in ecstasy
at the very thought of it. Then her rigid
scientific training asserted itself. “But I
couldn’t wear it, it’s like evaporating a for-
tune in credits within a few hours,” she
said unhappily.

“Bother, control ‘one,’ forget it for one
memorable night!” Palanth was exasper-
ated. “I know its antidote — and I have
it!” he said savagely.

“So have I,” Mark said grinning.

THE STAR

ii rjlHASSALIAN?” the girl was star-
J. tied. It was the forbidden Martian
liquor of the Gods. It could achieve al-
most miraculous cures when taken in tiny
doses; it gave the sensation of ineffable
happiness, and when taken to excess, it
drove the addict hopelessly insane.

“We still haven’t solved the problem of
the special permit,” Mark reminded them.

“I have one for a party of four, which
I haven’t used as yet,” Doctor Fortun said
with a hint of shyness. “You’ll have time
to read your orders and then I’ll pick you
both up at International House in my helio-
plane. Agreed ?”

“Agreed !” Both Mark and Palanth said
fervently. They watched the slight figure
of the girl as she made her way through the
crowds with precision, her purple tunic
vivid against the white carpet of fallen
snow. “Her mind was well guarded !”
Palanth thought aloud.

“It is a mind of power, or I would have
contacted it,” Mark barely whispered with-
out moving his lips.

“Still, there can be nothing at Havanol
that we can’t cope with,” Palanth shot a
powerful telepathetic vibration at the
Earthian Spacer. “Have you had the feel-
ing of being under spy-ray, Mark?”

“Yes, for months . . . but I’ve guarded
my mind, and as you know, the Council’s
spy-ray is not quite effective on those be-
yond controls one, six and fifteen; we’re
beyond conditioning for penetration by
their mental synthesis. At times they’re
able to obtain partial ideation which they
reconstruct and reform into thought-pat-
tern trends — but hell! our thought-trends
and individualistic patterns have been
known to them all our lives. However,
we are being used as tools — indirectly!”

“We have no proof, Earthman! In any
event, within certain limits we are still
free agents. Their orders may be one
thing, what we do ... is another. This
cataclysm has shorn the World State of
most of its power, on Terra at any rate.
Mars and Venus would sweep the resettle-
ments off their planets if the Terran fleet
weren’t constantly on guard!”

“Havanol may give us an inkling of
what the game is !” Mark observed. “The
whole secret lies within the reason for
evacuating the irreconcilables. The Civi-

7— Planet Stories— 'Winter

GUARDSMAN 97

cans, Guildians, Technicians and Ruralians
are merely the base of the pyramid ; between
them and the Scientists there’s a gap that
must be filled by the Internationals and the
Philosophers — without pioneers and think-
ers in the abstract, their rule’s static. Their
scheme, whatever it is, fails without us.’ ?
Mark was telepathically communicating
with Palanth his conclusions as they neared
International House.

Palanth’s violet eyes narrowed in amuse-
ment. “They no doubt have a surprise for
us in store — how poetic that we should be
the ones to surprise them!” The Martian
waved his perfumed kerchief and the
sparkling iciness of the breeze was scented
with fresh jasmines.

Ill

M ARK’S PIAND tightened on the hard
object he carried in a lower pocket of
his tunic. It seemed to him as if an im-
measurably distant vibration reached the
very top of his brain where the most diffi-
cult thinking is done. It was a fleeting
thought, the barest sidereal whisper, that
was gone almost the instant it impinged
upon his mind. Could the final answer lie
there for them?

With Terra gone, or made uninhabitable,
they would be homeless children of space,
unless they subjected themselves to the
prosaic, uninspiring existence of the plane-
tarian settlements, limited by space, rigidly
under Council control — their lives but
pawns in a gigantic game that was planned
for centuries to come with a cold, mathe-
matical imperonality that reduced life to a
mechanical phenomenon. Mark shuddered
slightly.

“Yes, Palanth, poetic justice indeed!
Come to my apartment at International
House, I want to tell you a story . . . the
story of what happened on Europa when
I was Mark the daredevil, recorded as
Hugh Betancourt — the surname of my
Mentor before I earned my rank and the
right to use my own name. Jim Brannigan
was my second in command, when he
crashed our ship on Europa. . . He
was smiling with a distant look in his eyes.
Later, they met Doctor Fortun.

She was still sheathed in the filmy tunic
of silver-violet she had worn at Hava-
nol. The fragrance of Venusian butterfly-

98 PLANE T

orchids was a faint invitation to desire.
But her firm, capable hands at the controls,
sent the luxurious helio-plane hurtling
through the stratosphere at a dizzy speed
above a continental cloud bank.

Dawn was beginning in a young flood of
opalescent fire; the ship was dipping and
the clouds were swirling. Doctor Fortun
sat silent with an enigmatic smile on her
lips. Mark Lynn didn’t speak lest he break
the spell, while Palanth leaned back in his
mullioned seat, eyes closed, recapturing the
past memorable hours.

At last the terrain became visible.

It seemed only seconds and they were
hovering above the immense interplanetary
field where vast spacers awaited launching.
Built to accommodate hundreds of thou-
sands, their titanic proportions dwarfed
everything around them. Doctor Fortun
touched the controls of her helio-plane,
and instantly the ship veered and aimed
straight for one of the spacers. She flicked
a lever and locked the controls. Calmly,
she released another lever, and the robot
pilot took over. She leaned back with a
sigh, her shoulders slumped, silent still.

Mark Lynn’s eyes widened. “What are
you doing! We’ll crash against that
Spacer. . . .” He leaped to the controls
but the locking mechanism had been set for
arrival and could not be unlocked until the
ship came to a stop. At the urgency in
his voice, Palanth jerked forward wide
awake, in time to glimpse the cavernous
proportions of the starboard port of the
interplanetary spacer yawning open to re-
ceive them.

As it entered the stupendous spacer, the
helio-plane decelerated suddenly, coming
to an abrupt stop that pressed them back
against their ultra-padded seats as if a
gigantic hand had pushed them back. In-
stantly the spacer’s port closed automati-
cally without a sound and vari-colored
lights flashed within the ship. A bell rang
shrilly, insistently somewhere.

“Strap yourselves immediately and push
that small lever on the side of your seats,
it’ll convert them into couches,” Doctor
Fortun directed hurriedly. “Prepare for
launching !” She herself was already busy
converting her own seat and then strapping
herself. From a pocket of her tunic she
took a tiny box and opening it took two
pellets which she swallowed; within sec-

STOMES

onds she was unconscious. Mark reached
over and took the box from her nerveless
fingers. “Vanadol! For those who do not
wish the sleep-freeze, Palanth! Do you
want any? Or will you withstand, the
gravs ?”

“Neither, I’ll submerge my conscious
mind and thus preserve everything that
occurs in my subconscious without suffer-
ing the effects of acceleration.”

“So will I,” Mark agreed. His dark
green eyes were lambent with fury. “We’ve
been tricked very neatly, old Spacer. We’re
going somewhere, willy-nilly. The first
trick’s theirs!” He gazed at the uncon-
scious form of the girl with a mixture of
sorrow and anger. “The same old story on
a higher plane,” he whispered to himself.
“A memorable night — and the next day
shanghaied into space! I wonder if the
ancients staffed their crude water vessels
in this manner ?”

A S THEY submerged their conscious
minds, a buzzer vibrated throughout
the interplanetary spacer, a tremor went
through the beryllium alloy monster and
suddenly it catapulted into space on the
astro-warp, robot-controlled until beyond
the gravitational pull of Terra. The tiny
Helio-Plane, tiny in comparison with the
titanic spacer, hung suspended in a special
craddle to minimize still further the effects
of 2g’s acceleration. Doctor Fortun and
the two Internationals were too valuable
to take chances. But the incongruous three
were beyond inductive thinking as the
“Stellar-Virgin” leaped away from Earth.

They didn’t hear a mechanical voice or-
der : “Free fall into orbit three.” Presently
the ship settled into the warp. After a
while, the same mechanical voice ordering:
“Free fall into orbit nine.” Presently the
Space Drive took hold as the interplanetary
cruiser warped out into free space. The
normal gravity plates began to function and
instantly the pressure ceased.

Color returned to Mark Lynn’s face, he
was the first to awaken. From where he
lay, he could see the still form of Palanth,
a fallen dishevelled giant, and the fragile
figure of Doctor Fortun, pale as death and
as still. A pang of pity shot through him,
then remembering, a surge of anger made
his eyes grow cold.

Leisurely he unstrapped himself and

THE STAR

stretched, then went over and unstrapped
his two companions. “Well, we’re together,
for better or for worse,” he sighed. Just
then Palanth shuddered and opened his
violet eyes; at sight of Mark he sat up
abruptly, passing a dazed hand over his
eyes. Then he saw the still unconscious
form of Doctor Fortun and recollection
came to him.

“She’s still asleep,” Mark said softly.
“Let her rest, we’ll have ample time for
explanations.”

Suddenly Palanth laughed. “Shanghaied,
by Jupiter’s Red Spot!” He searched as-
siduously for his eternal kerchief. “Ah,
here it is . . .” then remembering, “My
extracts! All my fragrances that have
taken years to collect, left on Terra!” He
cursed venomously in five interplanetary
dialects until he was out of breath.

“Magnificent!” Mark commented admir-
ingly.

P ALANTH subsided into smoldering
fury, his great eyes almost black, the
chiselled nostrils quivering. To him it was
an appalling loss.

“Go on, don’t stop now,” Mark urged
him grinning. “Later, when she wakes up,
you won’t be able to mourn your perfumes ;
now’s your chance, besides I'd like some of
those remarks for my own collection.
Planetar ian !”

“You’ll find them in your private quar-
ters awaiting you in the Spacer,” a wan
voice said wearily. “I feel as if I’d been
mangled,” Doctor Fortun sighed tremu-
lously. Both men turned toward the girl,
but her slender body had not stirred, the
eyes were closed, only a tiny, tired smile
hovered on the curving lips.

“Didn’t know you were awake!” Mark
reddened at the recollection of the lurid
language.

“Praise be to Antares'. My extracts . . .
where are they, where are my quarters . . .
let’s get out of here !” Palanth could think
of nothing but his priceless collection.
“Without them I’d have to condition my-
self to pollution !”

“You’re not very complimentary, Mar-
tian !” Doctor Fortun chided, her hazel eyes
flickered open and she sat up. The girl
surveyed Mark Lynn with calm, clear eyes.
"What, no violence, not even recrimina-
tions? What an utterly erroneous concep-

GUARDSMAN 99

tion the Council has about you Interna-
tionals,” she observed, and waited for Mark
to speak.

“We don’t indulge in futilities, Doctor
Fortun,” Mark replied. “But perhaps you
can give us an inkling of what all this is
about; I think we deserve at least that
much, Scientist!”

The girl seemed to meditate in silence.
An odd, half fearful, half ashamed expres-
sion flitted across her features. “Yes, you
deserve a great deal more than I can offer
you, Spacer Lynn. But I’m afraid I can
only give you another unpleasant experi-
ence to chalk up against me. It’s all part
of a pattern agreed upon even before you
and your companion arrived on Terra. It
was thought that only your influence on
Internationals and Philosophers could per-
suade them to evacuate — they’d believe you,
where they would never trust the Council.
It was necessary that you be seen on Terra
— when you entered the Council building,
it was visi-screened in detail throughout
the World State ; your encounter with the
attacker on the street, was seen by count-
less millions. It had to be established that
you were on Terra, and in touch with the
Council, so that your audio-visi-screen
broadcast should be considered authentic.”

1 6 T>UT I didn’t broadcast, my orders

JO from the Council were to promise
all Internationals, Philosophers and the
Ruralians— in fact, all dissenters — a habit-
able planet to which they would be trans-
ported in sleep-freeze, together with all
metallic substances, seeds, plasms, drugs,
food, in fact everything required for their
normal existence for a five-year cycle —
free from interference by the Government
of the World State — provided they agreed
to furnish the World State with an equal
amount of materials within one hundred
years. I never believed for an instant that
the Council would relinquish control, the
absolute lack of weapons, or of machinery
to fashion them, was in itself a proof of
intentions beyond the letter of the offer.
I meant to refuse to broadcast to the irre-
concilables my personal guarantee as de-
manded by the Council. Besides, I know
of no such planet.”

“That was why I took you to Havanoi,' 1
Doctor Fortun nodded sadly. “The Coun-
cil anticipated your refusal — your psycho-

100 PLAiVET

logical data easily told them that — and since
at Havanol only those with special permit
could enter, the guests were specially
chosen, so that none without the scientific
circle knew you were there, thus your
broadcast became authentic in the minds of
the dissenters. You noticed there were no
visi-screens at Havanol, under the excuse
that nothing that did not contribute to
pleasure could be permitted.”

‘‘But I tell you, I didn’t broadcast !” Mark
was becoming exasperated. “You keep on
harping on that!”

“No, but your double did,” the girl’s
voice was opaque. “Turn on the visi-
screen in the Spacer, and you’ll learn the
truth. Everything that has been visi-
screened on Terra since your arrival, was
recorded in the Spacer’s telecast — simply
select the broadcasts of the date and hour
when we went to Havanol, and it will be
shown on the visi-sreen panel in the Com-
mander’s quarters. Your double — part re-
semblance, part surgico-synthesis even imi-
tates your voice within one-tenth of a
microgram of its tonal quality. Detection
was beyond human power, Spacer Lynn.”

“If I ever get my hands on him ... 1”
Mark’s fingers clenched spasmodically as
his face went dark with passion.

“You never will,” the girl said sadly,
“nor on the double who took the place of
Palanth . . . even that detail was taken care
of, perfumes and all,” her smile was bitter.
“By now, both have been converted to
power reserve, their usefulness having
ended.” There was an uncomfortable
pause, the silence becoming oppressive in
the luxurious helio-plane of the girl.

“Who’s the Commander of the Inter-
planetary Spacer?” Mark asked at last,
his agile mind already seeking means to
circumvent the snare.

“You!” was the laconic reply.

“I? Has the Council gone mad? Do
they think that after what’s happened they
can place a spacer in my power, and still
command my allegiance? I can lose their
damned Patrol in uncharted space . . . and
I will!”

“No, Spacer Lynn, you’ll have to find
a better, a more definitive solution than
that. You see, you promised millions
a planet of freedom, where they could
build a new civilization patterned after
the old American Constitution, but on

STORIES

an even greater, a wider plane of being.
You promised them freedom from the
Council, and a chance to develop untram-
melled not only their minds but their emo-
tions as well ; you do not know it, but your
double was trained as a great actor, years
of conditioning and training taught him to
ring the changes of emotion on human souls
not deadened by the controls. Reports
showed that millions wept, that a tidal
wave of joy coursed through their ranks
sending them pouring like a human cataract
into the awaiting spacers, and sleep-freeze,
Mark !”

IV

( 6 T T A VE you the figures on how many

Aa agreed to evacuate?” Mark’s face
was white and tense. Palanth was silent,
immobile, in the hieratic attitude of Mar-:
tians in deep thought.

“Roughly, three hundred million. I re-
ceived the secret report just before we left
Havanol.”

“Where are they now?” Mark forced
himself to ask.

“Travelling in space under robot con-
trol. When they arrive within the orbit of
Europa, they will remain in an orbit calcu-
lated to parallel the trajectory of our Uni-
verse in space, in relation to the orbit of
Europa, so that they will be like satellites
of that planet. You will find an instru-
ment in your quarters, which when operated
activates a vibrational beam of such po-
tency that it will contact the robot control
of those spacers, causing them to land on
the planet at various places and intervals.
The major task will be to administer the
antidote to sleep-freeze, but as each dis-
senter’s awakened, he or she can join in
awakening the rest. Your task is to build
a civilization of Europa, a civilization with
all the technical science of Terra, and to
thoroughly develop that planet.”

“But why Europa? It’s a bleak world
of cold and bare rocks, lit by a hellish crim-
son radiation from Jupiter’s red spot, de-
serted, unhospitable . . .”

“But habitable, and rich in minerals, a
large world with which to replenish a rav-
aged earth. The moon, our Luna, will go,
Mark. The Council plans to eventually
move Europa from its orbit to take the
place of our Moon! What happened to

THE STAR

you when you crashed there, is known to
the Council ; they inspected your ship and
found it had been expertly repaired with
rare metals and superb skill. By spy-ray
they obtained enough out of your mind to
obtain a pattern. You didn’t have reserve
oxides with you on that trip, yet oxides had
been used in repairing your ship; an as-
sortment of special tools were needed to
make the repairs — tools you didn’t have
with you, yet the work had been done
with a skill that surpassed that of our best
technicians. And, finally, it was established
that your skull had been crushed from be-
hind, yet, you arrived in perfect health,
the bone fracture entirely healed and with
thrice the energy reserve of a normal man 1
as a psychologist, I worked on the report.
It was startling!”

“I see. And if I refuse to be part of
their plan?” Mark’s voice had the flat tones
of a man condemned to death.

tfyOU will be sentenced to power re-
]( serve, and Europa taken by force. A
scientist will be placed in charge and armed
proctors brought to preserve obedience. The
Council hopes such measures will not be
necessary — it will mean a constant struggle
with the dissenters, and Venus and Mars
might take advantage of the situation to
begin the ancient wars all over again. That
is why they are willing to give you a free
rein. Ultimately of course, they envision
the planet as a satellite of the Earth, its
population under complete Council con-
trol.”

“I’ll not live to see that tragic day!”
Mark’s voice held infinite conviction.

“Neither will I,” seconded Palanth.

“I suppose you’re the direct representa-
tive of the Council?” Mark asked the girl.
“You’ll keep them informed of everything
we do !” There was contempt in his deep,
bitter voice.

“Don’t spare my feelings !” Doctor For-
tun smiled with a quiet sadness. “I’ve told
everything but what the Supreme Council
instructed me to say. I was to tell you an-
other story ... to play enchantress and
keep you lulled, if necessary, in a fool’s
paradise. But controls one, six and fifteen
never quite worked with me. I’ve had to
feign a lot and mask my mind lest I be
condemned to power control. We Psychol-
ogists are very few — it’s our only defense.

GVARDSMAW 101

Those we instruct in the techniques of the
mind, must join our guild and swear alle-
giance to ns! Why do you think I arranged
to come on this trip? For love of the
Council ?

“I’m a woman, Mark! I want a home
instead of a clinic and a husband instead
of an order for fertilization. I want to ex-
perience the rapture that is love and have
children. I came because I thought the
very qualities in you the Council means to
utilize might be the means of circumvent-
ing their purpose and . . . and make us
free!”

An incredulous look of surprise spread
over Mark’s face. For an instant he won-
dered if the Machiavellian tactics of the
Council could extend even this far. But
with a determined mental effort he probed
the girl’s mind and found it was unguarded.
There was no trickery, no deception in her
mind, even as the tears that blurred the
lovely hazel eyes were genuine.

“Venus be praised !” He exclaimed fer-
vently, and it was all he could do to refrain
from taking her in his arms and kissing
away the tears that were rolling down her
cheeks.

“She speaks the truth,” Palanth said
telepathically, there was a trace of em-
barrassment in his thoughts. “She will
be a most valuable ally in our fight.”

M ARK smiled, his face had lighted as
if a profound grief had been re-
moved. “You already know we’ll fight,
eh, Palanth?”

“But of course, O Terran of dubious
intellect!” The Martian said grandly and
waved the sadly crumpled kerchief now
almost devoid of its overpowering perfume.
He was himself again, eager for the in-
tellectual struggle against overwhelming
odds.

“What sort of intelligence is there on
Europa?” Doctor Fortun asked, once
more in control of herself.

“Exquisite beings with a mental power
•beyond our own, but resembling nothing
human,” Mark replied.

“Let’s leave this helio. I’m anxious to
inspect the Spacer; I’ve never commanded
a ship of this size.”

“How many are aboard and what are
they?” Palanth inquired. “I hope they’re
Internationals !”

102 PLANE T

“I don't know the figures, Palanth, but
I’m certain at least ninety percent are In-
ternationals. I do know at least five hun-
dred scientists of various categories are
aboard. They’ll be the first to be awakened
from sleep-freeze, for at journey’s end,
they take charge.”

“And who’s going to give them the anti-
dote?” Mark asked silkily.

“Robots, timed to administer it the mo-
ment we land on Europa. They have or-
ders to direct resettlement without inter-
fering too much — and of course, they are
the eyes and ears of the Council ; they are
the only ones who have the necessary equip-
ment for interplanetary communication, as
you’ll find out!”

“I think they need a long, long rest,
don’t you Palanth?” Mark was smiling.

“Indeed, O protector of the martyred 1”
Palanth exclaimed grandiloquently. They
must be tired, very tired ... of anything
but sleep !”

“I’ve never seen these robots,” Mark
Lynn thought aloud. “Are there many,
Doctor Fortun?”

“Approximately fifty — more than neces-
sary, but they’re to be used on landing by
the scientists. These robots, Mark, are
humanoid in their mental processes, able
to perform tasks too difficult for human
beings, especially in the mathematical field.
They are created secretly, for the peoples
of the World State must not know of their
invention — there would be no need for
labor if they were to be produced in suffi-
cient numbers; production of necessities
and luxuries could be increased a thousand
fold, and ... it would destroy the present
social philosophy of the World State. It
would remove the credo of achievement,
it would abolish the standards of rigid thrift
and conservation in a world of undreamed
plenty, and finally, with robots able to
solve the most intricate problems the abso-
lute need for guidance would be neutralized.

“The Supreme Council had these robots
built for their exclusive use. Only one
thousand exist, we've been allotted fifty
because Europa’s been acknowledged as
a major achievement.”

“Can they be neutralized — the robots, I
mean?” Mark was thinking at a furious
pace.

“These robots are impressionless, blank,
so to speak. Their only motivation is to

STORIES

administer the sleep-freeze antidote to the
scientists aboard. After that, the scientists
can direct them to required tasks, and each
problem as it is solved by the robot, re-
mains in its mechanical nero-pattern for
repetition if necessary. They’re wholly
metallic, almost indestructible. Whoever
uses them first, is their master!”

I T WAS THEN that Mark unable to
restrain himself, bent down and kissed
her. “It occurs to me,” he said very gently,
that I’ve never known your social name.”

“Lucero,” the girl whispered. “It’s an
ancient, almost forgotten name of the ro-
mance languages now lost.”

“The evening star!” Mark breathed.
“No wonder you’re golden . . .” Forget-
ting Palanth he was about to take her in
his arms, when the latter coughed with the
dry, hacking sound of the Martians.

“Are we going into the Spacer, or have
we changed our minds?” he inquired of
the universe in general. “Terra’s being
wrecked, we’re shanghaied aboard a sleep-
freeze coffin polluted with half a thousand
scientists and fifty inimical robots ; we are
headed for an unexplored moon of Jupiter,
in the mesh of a gigantic plot, and three
hundred million victims are dependent on
our wits . . . yet two highly specialized
humans on whom the fate of a universe
depends, are oblivious of it all like two
Phobos-struck kaladonis ! Arrgh . . . what
a race, O Mind of ultimate understanding 1”
He bowed at the mention of the Martian
all highest — the nameless God.

Both Lucero and Mark came to, faces
crimson, smiling sheepishly. Together
they left the helio-plane and went down an
emergency ladder into the interior of the
vast interplanetary Spacer.

Within the Stellar Virgin the silence was
intense — the silence of a dead city. In
the luxurious quarters provided for the
scientists, the latter lay soundless and in-
ert in the almost ultimate oblivion of sleep-
freeze. They were ten in number to
each mammoth, cavernous stateroom, and
in the very center, upon a throne-like dais,
motionless and life-like, a gigantic robot
sat immobile, awaiting the end of the trip,
when for the first time since they were
fashioned, they would perform the only
task impressed upon their virgin brains.
Mark Lynn went silently from cabin to

THE STAR GUARDSMAN

cabin, to all outward appearances inspect-
ing the ship, but inwardly, his mental
processes geared to the apex of their wide-
awakedness, grappled endlessly with the
problem of the robots. If the scientists
awakened from the sleep-freeze thanks to
the antidotes, they’d instantly command the
robots for their initial tasks and thereafter
they’d be masters of that incalculable
source of power. With the robots under
their command, the scientists would be
masters indeed, able to dispose of the
machinery within the Spacer at their will,
to manufacture more machinery, build
weapons and in short, control Europa.

He thought of the thousands of Interna-
tionals in the Spacer’s hold, and his head
ached with the sustained effort. It was a
little thing that gave him the clue, the
intense pain at the base of his brain was
like a constant hammering, and Mark con-
sidered an infinitesimal dose of Vanadol.
It would banish the pain as if by magic.

“Vanadol!” He exclaimed electrified.
“By Io, Vanadol is the answer ! How
much Vanadol have we got aboard?
Palanth, search the medical stores and find
how much of the stuff we’ve brought along
. . . hurry!” Mark’s eyes were sparkling,
green as emeralds.

Lucero regarded him curiously. “What’s
so important about Vanadol, Mark?”

“The scientists must not awaken until
we have the robots under our command.
By giving each scientist a heavy dose of
Vanadol, enough for weeks of sleep, we
circumvent the antidote for sleep-freeze.
It’s this way: when we land, the mecha-
nism within each robot timed for release on
arrival, activates them for their one and
only task, the administration of anti-sleep
freeze, but since each scientist will have
been thoroughly drugged with Vanadol,
they’ll be released from sleep-freeze, but
will continue to sleep under the powerful
narcotic. The robots then will be given
such commands as we decide on, and will
be entirely answerable to us three only.
They will facilitate immensely the task of
making Europa truly habitable, and since
they are almost indestructible, will be the
most valuable of all weapons. Let’s get
busy, if there’s enough Vanadol, we’ve
won the first round after all!”

Presently the Martian returned, “There’s

103

tons of the stuff,” he announced. Mark
had to explain all over again.

VI

ffpANADUR!” Mark Lynn breathed
A softly as he glanced at the stark
grandeur of Europa from one of the glass-
ite ports. It was night. The macabre glow
of Jupiter’s Red. Spot enveloped the
satellite in a red opaline haze that made the
vari-colored cliffs gleam with twisted flames
in deep crimson and orange and purple.
Over all, an eternal mantle of snow lay
like frozen spume. Mark opened his hand
and looked at the jewel he held. It was
pulsing now with a fiery radiance.

The great spacer was lying in the cup-
shaped hollow of the immense valley, rest-
ing on the blanketing snow, just as once
before, a tiny cruiser had rested crippled
in the fantastic Europan night. But it
was different then. Mark remembered his
chilling awe at the Dantesque panorama,
and his shock when Jim Brannigan had
found life on Europa, the strange, ex-
quisitely furred bipeds with slender arms
and six-fingered hands. He had thought
them animals then, despite the bright intel-
ligence shining in the beryl-eyes of the crea-
tures. But he’d learned differently in
time, when Jim had crushed his skull from
behind, and the Panadurs had saved him
by absorbing Jim’s life-energy and trans-
ferring it to him while he lay unconscious.
That was the miracle, that the metabolism
of the Panadurs could absorb energy from
any source and transfer it at will. They
were telepathic, and their leader had given
him the jewel to facilitate communication if
Mark ever returned.

It was like the remembrance of a dream,
to have the past pass in review through his
mind as he methodically donned his allur-
ium suit, and turned on the heating unit.

“I’m going out . . . alone,” he said firmly
to Palanth and Lucero. “I owe the in-
habitants of this world a lebt, and whether
we remain or not, is for them to decide.
You see this star-like jewel? That’s the
Star of Panadur ; by concentrating my
thoughts, it acts as a sort of transmitting
crystal and will make it possible for me to
reach the leader of the Panadurs. I will
return.” He smiled reassuringly into

104 PLANET

Lucero’s distraught face, and Palanth’s
scowling one.

“Why can’t I accompany you?” The
Martian growled. “Since when must I
be left behind in the face of danger? Am
I an old woman, Mark?”

“But there’s no danger, Palanth! It’s a
promise I gave that never, never would I
bring any intelligent creature to Panadur
without their approval. This world’s a
treasure house, and the Panadurs are a
treasure in themselves, for their fur is
finer than anything in the Universe, in-
cluding Neptune’s moons. I know of a
vast cavern floored with oxide, and cliffs
of pure metal. Europa, or rather, Panadur,
is an inexhaustible source of power! It
remains with them — the Panadurs, whether
we remain or not.” He smiled at them
again, almost pleadingly, for them to un-
derstand, and without another word,
stepped through the air-locks and was
gone. They could see his tall figure in its
gleaming sheath outlined in the unearthly
glow until it disappeared in the distance.

M ARK LYNN let his mind be passive.

Contact with the alien intelligence
had been made; the jewel in his hand was
now a burst of radiance, as he traversed the
valley in the direction of the cavern coun-
try, and at last he was before the gigantic
mass of cliffs he sought. He entered a low,
gallery-like cave that wound downwards
into the bowels of the cliff, following the
twisting turns as the gallery widened and
the luminescent walls became even more
luminous, until at the end of a turn a burst
of radiance met his eyes and he was once
more in the grotto of titanic proportions
lighted by the glaucous radiance, like the
green light beneath the waters of a shallow
sea. At his feet, crystalline and powdery,
the entire floor of the grotto was covered
by oxide as far as his eyes could see. Mark
had the odd sensation of living a part of
his life over again. He waited in silence.

Mark knew that thousands of burning
beryl eyes were peering at him from con-
cealed openings in the walls; he felt the
mental rapport with their leader that was
rapidly absorbing from his mind all that
could be obtained. The wait was intermin-
able. At last, a silvery-grey, furred being,
was before Mark, seemingly having come
from nowhere. It’s exquisite triangular

STORIES

face, with the wide-set beryl eyes and broad
forehead, was startlingly human.

“Greetings, twice come!” the faint
shadow of a smile seemed to cross its fea-
tures as it telepath ed the thought. “When
your space machine landed, we feared the
worst — but we are reassured. Your mind
tells me that countless of your kind hover
asleep over our world. What would you
have us do?”

“Your permission to remain,” Mark sent
the telepathic reply. And then, in a well-
ing flood of thought, poured out the story
of what had happened on Terra, the re-
settlement of two-thirds of the population
on other planets, and finally, their abhor-
rence of their Terran Government and its
methods.

“Allow us, O Panadur, to build a new
civilization on your world, a civilization
where we may achieve happiness in free-
dom. We bring over two thousand Space
machines laden with everything we can
possibly need, and millions of eager be-
ings. We will transform your world into
a Paradise such as you have never known.
Weather control stations will give Panadur
freedom from cold and darkness; cities
will be reared in beauty, and to you, we
guarantee forever, freedom from attack;
for if we do not remain on Panadur, whom
the Terrans call Europa, the Council of
Terra will never rest until it has been
subjugated by its interstellar fleet. Your
mines will be ravaged, your people will be
enslaved, blood redder than the angry spot
of the greater world will flow in rivers.”

“And how can you prevent them from
doing so, in any event ?” the Pandur asked.

f Cf T7E WILL make your world im-
VV pregnable. Each one of the
Spacers that brings our people here, will
be turned into a fighting cruiser ; the minds
of the greatest scientists of Terra will be
utilized for our advancement . . . and, these
scientists, five-hundred of them, now asleep,
will be delivered into your care as hostages,
together with fifteen robots, placed under
your command. We will ensure your
safety, in return for your scientific aid. We
know you have no tools; even to repair
a small rent on my cruiser when I crashed
here before, took hundreds and hun-
dreds of your people and the tools I had,
plus weeks of work ! The result was mag-

THE STAR

nificent, but I know how handicapped you
were. My robots will build you machines
of power, and we will give you that which
you may choose from our ships. In insur-
ing your safety, we ensure ours. One
for all, and all for one, O Panadur. Fate
has decreed that your world is in danger —
shall we join forces?”

‘‘It is true, Terran. We have achieved
mental mastery, but we’ve never conquered
our environment. Our hands,” he ex-
tended fragile, six-fingered hands without
thumbs, “are hardly suited to fashion tools.
But with machines that create other ma-
chines . . . and metal beings such as I saw
in your mind. ...” A far away look
came into beryl eyes as the Panadur leader
paused.

“Let your mind be passive that I may
contact and transmit to my people, they
must know the entire story.”

Mark complied, and instantly, as if a
tremendous force had struck him, he reeled
in darkness, consciousness fled. He never
knew that not far behind him another be-
ing fell unconscious also. It was Palanth.
The Martian had followed unseen, unwill-
ing to let Mark risk the unknown by him-
self.

The hours slid in silence under the un-
changing luminescence of the primordial
cavern, now filled with countless Panadurs
in hieratic attitudes.

At last one of the beings stood erect and
made a silent motion ; waves of pure energy
began to course through Mark Lynn and
Palanth. But when they awoke, all the
Panadurs were gone save their leader.
Mark dazedly stretched his long limbs and
looked at the Martian uncomprehendingly,
then slowly remembrance came.

“So, you did follow me after all? Dis-
obedience of orders in an uncharted world
— do you know the penalty imposed by the
Council ?”

“May the Council swelter in Venus’
deepest swamp !” Palanth spat irreverently.
“Didn’t intend to take chances . . . your
life’s too valuable, O scourge of the
Planets!” Under a grandiloquent manner
he tried to hide the mixture of bewilder-
ment and awe with which he gazed at the
placid Panadur Leader. He still had not
quite decided what had happened to him.

The Panadur in turn, gazed inscrutably
at the being from Mars, its delicate nose

GUARDSMAN 105

wrinkled slightly at Palanth’s mingled fra-
grances. What went on in the Panadur 's
prodigious mind was unknown to the two
men, for the three-foot tall Leader’s mind
was not in contact with theirs. The faint-
est hint of a smile hovered over his placid
features. At last he began to send :

“The tragedy of your world, ‘twice come’
is only less startling than that of your Gov-
ernment — your leaders are a paradox ! With
a philosophy of achievement they conceal
the greatest achievement of all — men of
metal to enrich your lives ; with the goal of
conservation and economy, they waste the
most precious of all things — Life! From
such a Government, we can expect but de-
struction.

“Yet, your people reared without con-
trols are dissenters. ... I fear they might
not accept our guidance, that at some fu-
ture time their will to power might
create an even greater problem to be solved.
However, there’s no alternative now. We
accept the fifteen men of metal, O Terran,
but above all we must have the ‘Sleeping
Ones’ whose minds we will study. We
Panadurs must guard against a future
paradox. Your people,” he paused and
gazed from Mark to Palanth, “may re-
main.”

The mental rapport was broken, and the
furred leader disappeared into the depths
of the cavern, leaving Mark and Palanth to
retrace their steps to the Stellar Virgin.

F OR the first time in her highly-trained
life, Lucero felt the full impact of lone-
liness as the Europan night swallowed
Mark and Palanth. At last she chose action
rather than endure the atavistic emotions
that had begun to grip her. And methodi-
cally she flitted silently from compartment
to luxurious compartment where the scien-
tists dreamt their drugged sleep. Care-
fully she scanned their faces and was struck
by one overwhelming fact — this was no
collection of second rate scientists for the
solution of routine problems, but an as-
semblage of the first order, now inert and
helpless in the coma of Vanadol, presided
over by a sphinx-like robot.

The last compartment was much larger
than the preceding ones, and by far more
luxurious; during the previous inspection,
Mark, Palanth and herself had had no
time to come this far, and the girl was

106 PLANET

startled at its complex magnificence.
Equipped for research work, it was a
miracle of scientific devices, from energiz-
ing cabinets to a bewildering array of surgi-
cal apparatus and tools.

Only one man occupied it, and on the
raised dais an immobile robot. But the
face that Lucero bent over made her gasp
with involuntary fear. It was the face of
Verdugo, the infamous cerebral surgeon
whose gifted fingers could change an en-
tire ego with a few movements of the atomic
scalpel.

The sight of the dreaded scientist in their
midst was startling enough, but what made
the girl turn ashen was the sudden flutter
of the surgeon’s lids. A painful groan
came from his lips, as he trembled and
opened his eyes. The sight of Lucero
bending over him seemed to reassure him,
for he smiled faintly.

Behind Lucero the towering robot glided
noiselessly to peer at his awakening master.
The girl was unaware it had moved.

“Shall I bring a measure of Thassalian,
Master?” The metal man’s richly modu-
lated voice rose without the slightest me-
chanical inflection.

For one shattering instant, the girl felt
as if her reason was taking wings. She
remained utterly still as if in the grip of
paralyzing hysteria. But her training saved
her. Slowly she turned and gazed into the
strangely human features of the metal
giant. At close quarters she noted the
smooth beryloid construction of the superb
outer shell ; the indestructible optics of
non-abradable, chemically inert crystal with
microscopic adjustments. But most im-
portant of all, she sensed that here was a
brain which had attained full growth —
powerful, experienced and . . . organic!

“Yes, bring me some Thassalian,
Alcoran ” the surgeon assented wearily and
half-rose from his couch with a sigh. “The
sleep-freeze reaction is far worse than I’d
anticipated !”

"The antidotes have been given — two
antidotes Master!” The super-robot an-
swered instantly.

“Two ! For the love of Terra ! If it took
a double antidote I must have been given
a dose big enough for a Hellacorium. . . .”

“Doctor Verdugo,” Lucero interrupted
purposely, now entirely calm. “There’s
life . . . intelligent life on Europa.” She

STORIES

didn’t intend that Alcoran should have a
chance to disclose what he must have
known.

“Yes?” Doctor Verdugo was all atten-
tion. “Bring the Thassalian !” He waved
an imperious hand at Alcoran, “and don’t
stand there like an effigy! Must your or-
ders be given twice?” He glared at the
robot. “Proceed, Doctor Fortun. Intel-
ligent life . . . what’s it like?”

“Humanoid, but furred against Europa’s
eternal cold. They seem to be telepathic !”

“Telepathic . . . Remarkable! I must
have a specimen without delay. Have my
scientists been awakened?”

“We’ve just arrived, Doctor, they’re be-
ing given the antidote now,” Lucero was
once again her coldly efficient self.

“Your Thassalian, Master.” Alcoran ex-
tended the small glass and waited while the
scientist drank, closing his eyes against the
ecstasy imparted by the liquor.

“Help me up!” The girl complied sti-
fling a grimace of distaste as his arm en-
circled her waist. Verdugo stood on his
feet with the girl’s help, weaving a little,
and finally recovered his balance.

“Telepathic . . .’’he murmured, the light
of some fiendish purpose gleaming in the
coal black eyes. “Order some of my scien-
tists to secure a specimen immediately, Doc-
tor Fortun!” The girl bowed.

“Master . . .” Alcoran’s voice was insist-
ent. “You must. ...” .

QILENCE! Never use the word ‘must’

O to me, never !” Verdugo had drawn
himself to his full height. “Ever since I
synthetized his brain, he’s got the idea that
he owns me! I had to order him not to
stir from his seat during the entire voy-
age ... I wouldn’t have had any peace
otherwise,” he smiled at the girl and waved
toward the super-robot. “I synthetized
his brain from three of the finest intelli-
gences on Terra!”

“You mean you transferred three brains
to Alcoran’s helmet?” She asked aghast.
“But didn’t they retain their memories . . .
their personalities. . . .?”

"Of course not, my dear. I never do
things by halves. And now I must inform
the Council we have arrived, and the dis-
covery of life on Europa.” He walked to-
ward the immense metal wall and his
slender hand reached out to touch a spot.

THE STAR

Silently, the huge metal partition rose up-
wards revealing a hidden alcove in the very
center of which, taking up about two-thirds
of the available space stood a gigantic
machine.

“A Tele-Magnum !” Lucero breathed.

“Alcoran, contact Venus . . . the Council
Hall,” Doctor Verdugo ordered his super-
robot. The latter came noiselessly forward.
Once seated at the console of the incredibly
complex mechanism, his agile finger ran
without hesitation over the banked keys,
after pressing a master switch that lighted
serried ranks of powerful tubes, with an
eerie violet light.

“Give my orders to my scientists, Doctor
Fortun — it is imperative I have an Europan
specimen immediately.” Doctor Verdugo
made a curious grimace that accentuated
the evil expression stamped on his features,
then he nodded in dismissal.

With a great effort Lucero quieted her
swirling thoughts. She had no doubt but
that the super-robot knew about the admin-
istration of Vanadol. If Verdugo learned
of it, he would instantly report it to the
Council, and at least part of the fleet would
come to investigate. Against the fleet of
Terra they were powerless.

“I’ll not deserve this world and freedom
if I fail now!” She told herself. White-
faced and grim she began to carry out a
plan that was slowly growing in her mind
out of sheer desperation. Once again she
retraced her steps from compartment to
compartment, and began motivating each
robot, commanding them to administer the
sleep-freeze to the men and women in the
lower tiers. One robot she left, the one in
the compartment next to that of Doctor
Verdugo — she had a task for that one.

When all the robots save one had been
sent below, she went back and entered the
next to the last compartment.

“Arise and come with me,” she ordered
the robot. “I’m your master, you will obey
my orders implicitly.” The metal monster
stirred, as if some hidden mechanism had
come to life at the vibration of her words.
It arose on frictionless bearings and stood
glittering before her ; she opened its breast
and inspected the masterly work that had
been done on the control panel ; its eyes, lit
now by the glow of intelligence seemed
uncannily human. Lucero knew this speci-
men didn’t possess the Machiavellian intel-

GIARDSMW 10 7

ligence of Alcoran — only Verdugo could
accomplish such a satanic piece of work —
but it was larger and more powerful than
Alcoran, the latter being a specialized prod-
uct for intricate mental work.

Resolutely Lucero marched to Doctor
Verdugo’s compartment, followed by the
fearful metal servant. The scientist had
already completed preparations for a vivi-
section when the girl entered, and was
bending over a multitude of helixes of
finest wire of sensitized silver.

An array of electric and atomic-powered
instruments from tiny, silver-like scalpels,
to razor-sharp saws gleamed on tables at
his sides; fulgurants cast ultra-visibility
light upon the white-swathed couch where
the victim was to be strapped alive. Ver-
dugo did not hear them enter, but Alcoran
did ! Instantly the super-robot gave a warn-
ing cry at the sight of his metal counter-
part and stood before the girl and robot
like an impassable wall.

“Attack!” Lucero did not waste words.
“Destroy it!” She pointed to the slightly
crouching Alcoran.

VII

W ITH a blasting roar the girl’s robot
lunged, and Alcoran sprang forward
to meet the attack. It was a nerve shatter r
ing impact, like that of two armored pre-
historic monsters engaged in a death-
struggle.

Behind the metal men, both Lucero and
Verdugo maneuvered for position, their
atomo-pistols blazing a path through scien-
tific instruments and furnishings as they
fired over and around the struggling robots.
The awesome din of the gigantic battle was
deafening, as the compartment was slowly
converted into shambles.

Once Alcoran managed to grip the leg
of Lucero’s robot and the latter went crash-
ing against the vivisection table, instantly
pulverizing it. But with a leap that carried
it half across the vast alcove, the robot
charged Alcoran like a battering-ram and
driving him into the Tele-Magnum room
with the impetus of his leap. The explosion
of shattered tubes and crashing metal, the
singing hum of ripped berlyloy and pulver-
ized plastuco, was drowned by the clang
and thud of the gigantic bodies as they
strove to wrench each other apart.

108 PLANET

And now, only the litter-strewn floor
was between Lucero and Verdugo, the lat-
ter oozing blood from a seared shoulder
where an atomoblast had touched. Deliber-
ately she aimed her atomo-pistol, even as
the surgeon simultaneously raised his, but
her blast only disintegrated a fulgurant on
the ceiling, while Verdugo’s fatal pencil of
violet light speared an empty spot, for at
that instant the hurtling form of Alcoran
spewed from the alcove, barely grazing the
girl, but such was the terrific force of his
passage that it knocked her spinning against
the wall where she collapsed.

Behind Alcoran, hurtling like an aveng-
ing angel, Lucero’s robot came charging
with but one thought — destruction.

“Alcoran!” It was Verdugo shouting
hoarsely at his creation, now spread-
eagled on the floor. “Run, follow me !” He
dived for the passageway as Alcoran, dam-
aged as he was, his brain shaken by the
terrific concussion arose and sped after him.

At the sight of the fallen girl, Lucero’s
robot checked his rush, hesitated and finally
bent over her. He raised the still form as
if it were a feather and stood for a moment
as if trying to cerebrate. Finally it de-
posited her with infinite care on the couch
where Verdugo had slept. Then it began
to search what cabinets had not been de-
stroyed, for a stimulant.

It found the decanter of Thessalian, that
miraculously had escaped destruction ;
gently opening the girl’s mouth the robot
poured a few drops down her throat. Just
then Mark Lynn and Palanth burst into
the room. Shamble was before their eyes.
Mark went white with apprehension and
leaped to Lucero’s side, but the robot placed
a formidable metal hand against the earth-
man’s chest and growled:

“Back, Terran! Come no nearer!”

P ALANTH slid toward them atomo-
pistol in hand, just as Mark drew his
But at that moment Lucero opened her eyes
and groaned softly.

“Mark !” There was a universe of glad-
ness in her cry. She waved a limp hand
toward the robot. “This is Mark Lynn
and the other’s Palanth — your masters also,
obey them.”

The robot stepped back and Mark
kneeled at her side. “Are you hurt, my

STORIES

darling ?” Lucero shook her head and tried
to smile.

Palanth turned to the robot. “Tell us
what occurred in detail,” he commanded.
Thus it was that from the metal lips they
heard the entire story with photographic
accuracy, as far as he had seen.

“I might have known they’d have one
last counter-check,” Mark reproached him-
self. “I should never have left you!”

“Who could have foreseen this ?” Lucero
raised herself on an elbow. “Even I had
no idea that Verdugo was with us, not to
speak of his bringing one of the only two
ultra-specialized super-robots in existence.
We'll have to work very fast, Mark!
There’s nothing, literally nothing, that Al-
coran cannot accomplish in a scientific way,
provided he has the materials — Verdugo
may even have him build a Tele-Magnum
and communicate with the Council !”

“But where’s he going to get materials,
my dear ? A Tele-Magnum is a tall order !”

“I don’t know. . . . But I do know that
Verdugo has the mind of a fiend and the
skill of a genius, and Alcoran’s a triple-
synthetized brain, and under Verdugo’s
control !”

“We’ll deal with the surgeon,” Palanth’s
voice was deadly.

“And we shall deal with Verdugo and his
scientists,” came the quiet telepathic
thought.

Both Mark Lynn and the Maritan turned
seeking its source, and saw framed in the
doorway to the alcove, the silver-furred
figure of the Panadur leader.

“That was the agreement,” the Panadur
added after a pause. “Thousands of my
people await without to carry him away.”

Lucero’s robot took a step forward tenta-
tively and then gazed questioningly at its
mistress, and suddenly a wave of energy
from the Panadur stopped it dead in its
tracks.

“The agreement will be honored,” Mark
acquiesced, “but one has escaped, O Pana-
dur, and Klonos knows where in that maze
of rocks and caverns he’s now hiding with
his super-robot.”

“That’s our problem, Terran. The
agreement was five-hundred, and five-
hundred scientists shall we have.”

“You will need the fifteen robots imme-
diately,” Mark said thoughtfully. “Lucero,
my dear, only you can command the robots,

THE STAR

so place fifteen under the Panadur’s com-
mand. . . . are you able to walk?”

“Of course, I was only stunned.” She
rose from the couch and left the compart-
ment followed by her ever-watchful metal
man. The Panadur seemed to melt away as
it glided into the hall.

“And now,” Mark addressed Palanth,
“we must begin to land the spacers, I have
the radio beam. The sooner everyone has
been given the sleep-freeze antidote, the bet-
ter. Internationals first., they are our best
fighters, just in case the Council has an-
other trick up its sleeve. Then we must
find some way of increasing the spacers’
resistance to the disintegrating beam — the
alloy used on robots’ case shell is the clue
— they’re impervious to atom-blast.
Weather stations next — robots to be de-
tailed on that and machinery stations to
turn out mechanical robots and more ma-
chinery . . . tools, weapons for defense . . .
we’re really fighting for time.”

“I know. But even then, I can think of
nothing that can stop Terra’s fleet if it
ever comes to Europa. It’s practically invul-
nerable, or Venus and my own Mars would
have shaken off the Council’s domination
long ago !”

“I have an idea Palanth! It’s far from
clear, but if it works ... It has to do with
radiant energy — even the Fleet couldn’t
withstand that.”

“Radiant energy! Have you lost your
mind? Who can control a radiant energy
vortex? Besides, we have no means of re-
leasing it. Stop dreaming Mark !”

“It isn’t a dream,” Mark shrugged wide
shoulders. “But come, let’s take a look at
the scientific exodus — I’m certainly glad to
be rid of them, hope the Panadurs can cope
with that tribe.”

“What do you suppose the Panadurs
really want with them, Mark ?”

“Probe their minds of course. Panadurs
have surpassing intellects, but they have
neither tools nor scientific techniques. I
suppose they want to learn all they can
from our 'sleeping beauties,’ in order to
achieve their own inventions. Panadurs are
thumbless, unable to make tools, thus their
development has been purely along mental
lines. Since their metabolism requires no
food, as they are able to absorb energy
directly, they have by-passed all domestic
arts and sciences.

GUARDSMAN 109

The steadily increasing noise from the
tiers below, had now become a cacophonous
din, as more and more Internationals came
to life.

T HE PANADUR LEADER bending
over a scientist for the nth time,
probed, delved and searched the innermost
recesses of the quiescent brain under the
scalpel, but at last he straightened with a
baffled expression.

The Europan cavern was a vast cata-
comb under the glaucous radiance of the
radio-active walls that spread a green stela
on the faces of the sleeping scientists, flank-
ing the walls in lengthening rows.

The Panadur knew what had been done,
he had even tried the delicate process, but
the secret of transfering a living brain,
minus its personality and the seat of entity,
remained unsolved.

Not one of the scientists brought from
the Stellar Virffin possessed the secret tech-
nique, and many Panadurs had sacrificed
themselves in vain as their brains died under
the atomo-knife.

Presently the Panadur Leader raised his
delicate face, the brilliance of his eyes in-
creased as he turned to face the tunnel
that led to the cavern’s entrance, then the
single thought flashed out: “Enter!”

It wasn’t long until the silence was
broken by the tread of heavy-shod feet
crunching the glittering oxide crystals, and
Mark entered followed by Palanth. The
awful responsibility for three-hundred mil-
lion lives and the transfiguration of a
world, had left its mark on the faces of the
two men.

“We bring bad news, Panadur!” Mark
said bluntly, in his preoccupation he uncon-
sciously resorted to speech. “One of the
space vessels has been looted of vital sup-
plies that can be used for the construction
of an inter-planetary radio. Verdugo took
the opportunity to steal its radio installa-
tions with the aid of his robot, while the
passengers celebrated their arrival on
Europa. If Verdugo builds a Tele-Mag-
num and contacts the Council, it means
War !”

“And war,” Palanth seconded, “means
the Terran Fleet, against which we are not
prepared !”

“When were the supplies stolen?”
“Three revolutions of Panadur on its

110 PLANET

axis ago — we learned of it today. Enough
time for Alcoran to have built an instru-
ment powerful enough to contact the Coun-
cil on Venus.”

“The blame is partly ours,” the Panadur
telepathed sadly. “We should have cap-
tured Verdugo long ago. But it meant
wasting lives to imprison that madman
. . . but now, we have no recourse, the sci-
entist and his metal servant will be brought
in. It will solve another problem,” he
added thoughtfully. “This !” He indi-
cated the trepanned cranium of the scien-
tist on the operating table.

“If you need them, Panadur, you may
have every robot in our possession,” Mark
offered.

For an instant the nearest thing to a
smile the two men had ever seen, crossed
the features of the strange being of Europa.

“Panadur thanks you, Terran. But we
already have built over a thousand robots,
half of them have mechanical brains and
can be radio-controlled, but the other half,
the important one requires a knowledge of
Verdugo’s technique for transplanting or-
ganic brains to metal men. He shall pro-
vide that . . . personally!”

“Once long ago,” Mark spoke medita-
tively, “you slew an enemy of mine with
a volume of energy like a bolt of lightning,
then you somehow transferred the latent
energy of that being to me. Could that
been radiant energy?” He paused. “Could
it, O Panadur?”

But the Europan had abruptly interposed
an impenetrable barrier between his mind
and that of the two men. With an im-
perious gesture he pointed to the exit of
the cavern. Mark and Palanth gazed at
each other in bewilderment, finally they
left in silence.

As soon as they were lost to view, the
cavern began to be filled by a steady stream
of thousands upon thousands of silvery
Panadurs silently filing in from the inner
caverns.

«TTTHAT in Phobos happened to
VV him?” Mark thought aloud, try-
ing to understand the incomprehensible
conduct of the Panadur Leader.

“Don’t ask me riddles about this fan-
tastic race of beings!” Palanth exclaimed
irritably, waving his handkerchief. “What

STORIES

has radiant energy got to with them any-
way ?”

“Just a hunch of mine, Palanth. If the
energy they absorb from minerals is radi-
ant energy . . . well, we might be able to
defy the Terran Fleet itself . . . if!”

“You still speak in riddles, O Thou
specially not wanted !” Palanth lapsed into
his usual grandiloquent manner. “At any
rate, your idea of fighting the Terran Fleet
with radiant energy certainly had a star-
tling effect on that mysterious biped of
yours.” He pressed still another offen-
sively perfumed handkerchief to his face
and eyed the changing landscape of Europa
with distaste. It was a raw panorama of
great tracts of vivid red soil, exposed by
the melting snows; outcrops of glittering
rocks rich in minerals flashed in rainbow
hues under the powerful ultra-visibility re-
flectors that were substituting for Terra’s
Sol. In the near distance, gigantic skeletal
structures were a babel of sound, and be-
yond, the mile-high weather control towers
fought steadily the numbing cold.

“Must I explain in words of one syllable
so that dubious intellect of yours can ab-
sorb it?” Mark asked mockingly. “Well,
while asking the Panadur about radiant
energy, I had in mind building thousands of
tiny spacers out of some of the Spacer
Transports that brought us here. These
tiny swarms are to be filled with radiant
energy and aimed by mechanical robot
control directly at the Terran Fleet so that
they will explode on contact, annihilating
everything in their path. Thus lives will be
conserved. . . . But the radiant energy must
come from the Panadurs!”

“Too many ifs” Palanth replied uncon-
vinced. “However, we can have a fleet of
miniature spacers ready before the Coun-
cil’s butchers get within a million parsecs
of Europa.

“But without either your damned radiant
energy or some explosive that will do what
no explosive has ever done before, or ray
either, for that matter, the ships will be as
useless as ... as a Panadur in a fight!”

“Build the fleet!” came the startling
telepathic command from the direction of
the cavern country.

“He ... It was in contact!” Palanth
gazed at Mark Lynn startled.

“He always is,” Mark held up the gleam-
ing blue, star-like gem he carried in his

THE STAR GUARDSMAN

pocket. “Probably appreciated your com-
plimentary remark about the fighting quali-
ties of Panadurs. But that’s what I wanted
to hear him say !” He exulted. “Hold up
everything Palanth, and throw all our re-
sources into the building of the miniature
fleet.”

“Yeah! But let’s not forget to get the
remaining spacers into shape just in case.
... I’d much rather die exploding on a
Terran spacer, than trapped like a Martian
desert rat on Europa.”

“Patience, O Spawn of unfortunate be-
getting!” Mark taunted his friend with
one of the latter’s favorite insults. “Every-
thing in good time.”

As their Spacer came into view in the
distance, Mark increased his speed un-
consciously as he thought of Lucero.

VIII

H IS EYES were expressionless, his ego
inert, but with the incredible dex-
terity of genius and long practice, Doctor
Verdugo transferred the brains of drugged
scientists to the waiting rows of perfected
robots.

The bolt of living energy that had'
dropped the infamous Terran surgeon in the
recesses of an Europan cavern, had neu-
tralized his will, and his egocentric and
sadistic personality no longer dominated his
brain.

Now his flying fingers manipulated
atomic scalpels without hesitation, and one
by one scientific brains were short of certain
areas, without impairing them. Silently
he coupled the organic demi-brains with the
mechanical motor organs of the robots, by
means of nerve tendrils that led out of the
brains themselves, and were curled into
coils about which he placed helixes of
sensitized silver wire, that made them vir-
tually transformers — nervous impulses into
electrical and vice versa.

The miracle that was Alcoran, the super-
robot, was being multiplied five-hundred
fold, as each scientific hostage provided a
brain to activate the new super-robots of
the Pandurs.

Alcoran itself had been operated upon
to remove certain allegiances and memories
and now, under the direct control of the
Panadur leader, assisted the doctor in the
operations.

Ill

The Panadur leader watched expression-
less as the work went on ceaselessly, in-
exorably until every scientific brain was
housed in a metal man.

Finally, at a telepathic command from
their leader, the Panadurs began to carry
the cadavers of the scientists away — their
energy potential must not be wasted — the
need for energy would be great. And then,
an uncanny, a hair-raising scene took place.

As if felled by a blow, Doctor Verdugo
collapsed prone upon the now empty oper-
ation table, and Alcoran detaching himself
from among the newly activated robots,
grasped instruments and began to operate.

Stranger still, a Panadur silently lay
down by the side of the scientist and re-
laxed as if in death.

Doctor Verdugo’s cranium was trepanned
and opened, Alcoran deftly extracted the
brain operating with the mastery that had
been Verdugo’s. Then he opened the brain
pan of the Panadur and removed certain
parts from its alien brain, including the
pituitary at the apex, which seemed enor-
mous in comparison with the size of the
Panadur’s brain, and grafted it to what
had been the brain of Doctor Verdugo.
Then as a swarm of Panadurs dragged a
robot forward, he inserted the organic
brain in the super-robot’s helmet, made
the necessary connections, completed the
task and sealed the incision. Verdugo’s
body was carried away. The same swarm
of Panadurs circled the super-robot, and
began to generate energy potential which
they transmitted to the quiescent brain in
its metal head.

Slowly, the superb metal man rose from
the table and with slender, delicate hands
grasped its head. Its brilliant beryl eyes
of purest indestructible crystal, glowed in
the chiseled semi-triangular face. Sud-
denly it raised its head and gazed straight
at the Panadur leader, and as if it had
received a command, it bowed silently.
Then, with the lithe, cat-like stride of the
Panadurs it headed for the exit of the
Cavern and was gone.

An expression of triumph exalted the
Leader’s features. “Hereafter,” he thought,
“the energy output to control robots’ brains
telepathically, will not be necessary. They
could be rendered telepathic!”

It was then the Leader turned majes-
tically toward the cavern’s depths and is-

112 PLANET

sued his final command to the waiting le-
gions of his people. The robots with the
mechanical brains, nearly a thousand strong,
marched forward, and, behind them, rank
upon rank of the countless furry Pana-
durs.

Once outside in the artificial sunlight of
Europa, only the myriad bullet-shaped,
miniature spacers flashing in the golden
light, drew their eyes. The distant rows
of tiny, waiting ships drew robots and
Panadurs alike like a magnet and the im-
mense army of silver-gray beings with a
vanguard of metal men swept forward,
eerily silent,

W ITHIN the Stellar Virgin, Mark
Lynn paced the confines of what had
been Verdugo’s chamber. The Tele-Mag-
num, repaired and rebuilt could be seen
in the small alcove. Mark’s face was gray
and haggard as he faced Lucero and Pa-
lanth, seated on a couch against the wall.

“No word from the Panadur Leader, and
we cannot wait much longer! If my cal-
culations are right, the Terran Fleet should
be nearing Europa’s orbit. We cannot af-
ford to be caught on the ground.’’

“Do you suppose the Council would
listen?” It was Palanth hoping against
hope. “Try them, Mark; we can spar
for time.” Then in sheer desperation: “I
told you, Terran, those bipeds would never
come through with that infernal radiant
energy!” His features also showed the
strain he’d gone through, even the
ubiquitous handkerchief was missing.

“I will!” Mark had reached a decision.
“But no mercy can be expected from them,
I’ll have to handle it my way. ...” He
broke off and walked to the Tele-Magnum,
followed by Lucero and Palanth. Outside,
an immense multitude of Terrans awaited
orders.

Mark Lynn sat down at the console and
manipulated the controls, his fingers danced
over the console keys until the eerie glow
of swirling colors and the ascending whine
of the instrument told him he had the re-
quired power. Scene after scene rushed
on and off the tele-panel until finally Venus
City flashed into view. Mark made mi-
nute adjustments and increased the poten-
tial — at last the inner Council Chamber was
revealed.

It was filled to overflowing with scien-

ST OKIES

tists of the highest order. An atmosphere
of excitement pervaded it as experts of
various categories rushed in and out with
their calculations and reports. They were
electrified as the scene within the Spacer
was flashed on their gigantic tele-panel.
Mark waited an instant before he spoke,
as the holy of holies subsided into utter
silence.

“Europa,” he said with complete aplomb,
“greets the Council. “A free Europa offers
peace. Soon the Terran Fleet will have
reached our new world, and that Fleet will
not return to Venus! Before it is too
late, before the inter-planetary void be-
comes the scene of a gigantic hecatomb,
we ask you, turn your fleet back before
it is too late !”

There was an interval of stunned, dis-
believing silence. Within the memory of
all present such a speech had never been
heard. Such insolence was so utterly un-
thinkable, that the scientists stood gro-
tesquely open-mouthed. Then in a rising
tide of fury pandemonium broke loose.

“Traitor!” Was the universal cry.
“Apostate, blasphemer !” From among the
scientific swarm that had completely for-
gotten their dignity, a tall, white-bearded
scientist detached himself and raising both
arms roared: “Silence! The Master will
speak!” The pandemonium ceased like a
receding storm. Mark Lynn waited. Con-
temptuously he eyed the sleek bodies clothed
in costly raiment, the be jeweled fingers
and cruel faces. A wave of revulsion
swept over him as he remembered what
countless millions had suffered at their
hands. And as he waited, a deep, mag-
nificently modulated voice broke the still-
ness:

“You offer peace!” Low, sardonic
laughter slashed like a scimitar. “Peace
I shall grant you earthling ... in the
power reserve! You and that addled fe-
male who has betrayed her scientist’s oath,
and that foppish Martian who even dares
to ape my robes. To the rest of the dis-
senters, conditioning by the controls and
rigid supervision for fifteen years. Those
who are immune to controls, shall be con-
demned to power reserve.”

He paused as if relishing the effect of
words that sealed a planet’s doom. Then :
“As for those humanoid creatures with
silver furs Doctor Verdugo mentioned in

THE STAR GUARDSMAN

113

his message, we have already planned their
orbit of achievement . . . that is,” the
satanic chuckle rose again, ‘‘for the ones
we spare to serve, the rest shall be disposed
of properly.”

The unseen speaker’s voice ceased, as if
there were nothing more to be said.

In the momentary silence the voice of
a robot boomed behind him :

“Master, a messenger from Panadur!”

M ARK LYNN whirled and saw a new
type of robot, whose delicate fea-
tures resembled uncannily those of the be-
ings of Europa. Its beryl eyes regarded
him steadily as it stood motionless flanked
by two robot guards. Then Mark received
the telepathic message flashing from the
super-robot’s brain :

“I, Leader of Panadur, have attended to
represent my People.”

For an instant Mark wondered if the
Leader had somehow transferred his own
brain to the metal man, for some obscure
purpose of his own, but telepathically, he
was reassured.

“The metal man’s brain relays my
thoughts only. It is a vehicle, nothing
more, and can convey speech when the
need shall arise.”

“War is imminent, Panadur,” he tele-
pathed, knowing that the Council could not
receive his thoughts. “Without radiant
energy we’re doomed to failure.” But
from the super-robot came no answer.
Mark Lynn whirled to face the Tele-Mag-
num again, and his voice rang true with
contemptuous assurance.

“You’re dreaming, Benevoletice ! My
offer was merely to prevent needless slaugh-
ter. Your hour of domination has passed.
When your Terran Fleet reaches the orbit
of Europa, it will disintegrate, leaving you
and your cruel henchmen helpless to en-
force your vandal rule on Mars and Venus ;
a tidal wave of retribution will sweep you
out of the planetary colonies. Europa is
and will remain free. Your despotic rule
has come to an end. This is your last
chance for peace !”

“You are mad!” There was a terrible
anger in the voice of the Supreme Ruler.
“Mad. . . . Do you think for an instant
that I would send the entire Terran Fleet
to your puny satellite? A mere section

8 — Planet Stories — Winter

Western,
baseball,
detective,
global wai
all stories
complete

★

A novel of the real West —

10,000 MEX
FOR SENORITA X

by J. E. GRINSTEAD

★

A novel of terror over Europe —

SKY-GHOST
OF THE SPITFIRES

by STEUART EMERY

★

A great baseball yarn —

SLUGGER IN THE
STRIKE-OUT GROOVE

by BILL HEUMAN

★

A novelet of wild-horse trails —

KING OF
THE KILLER HERD

by DEE LINFORD

★ ★ ★

and yarns by

James Goldthwaite
Chuck Martin
Larry Harris
Ralph Berard

All in the current

Now on your favorite newsstand

114

PLANET STORIES

HEY!

QUIT SHOVIN’!

No need to trample poor old
Uncle Dudley while the two of
you scramble around the news-
stand for your

1943

Illustrated

FOOTBALL

ANNUAL

Sure, you guessed right — there
won’t be so many copies this year
— paper shortage — BUT — why
don’t you and Uncle Dudley play
it smart?

ORDER IN ADVANCE
FROM YOUR
REGULAR DEALER

When we go to press we’ll cover
all such advance orders . . . that
way you and Uncle Dud’ll both
be sure to get the first and fore-
most, the one and original, big
red preview book that covers the
football realm from coast to
coast —

1943

Illustrated

FOOTBALL

ANNUAL

of a thousand ships will be enough to blast
your blaspheming minions off its frozen
wastes. But enough of this, in less than
an hour our ships will be above you and
death shall be swift!” The Tele-Screen
went blank.

“I can stay no longer, my men await
me.” Palanth rose abruptly and left the
chamber. He hurried to his flagship that
led a section of what remained of the great
Spacers that had brought them to Europa.

‘‘My bluff has failed,” Mark said quietly
to Lucero, and his face was drained of all
color. “Go to the Panadur caverns, my dear,
they maye be able to provide safety for you.
I have only one course of action left.”

Lucero shook her lovely head. “We
began together, we shall end that way.”
There was unshakable determination in her
quiet, husky voice. “Go and give the
necessary orders . . . it . . . it . . .” her
voice broke slightly, “has been a glorious
adventure, Mark!” He kissed her with
infinite tenderness and tore himself way.

Once in the control room, his tones were
hard as beryloy as he issued command after
command, and the gigantic spacers rose
in a crescendo of sound toward the track-
less void. He knew the ships had been
rendered as formidable as was within their
power, but even that was not enough, and
the knowledge that countless millions faced
certain death became a terrible anger and
desperation within him.

T HE Europan Fleet in battle forma-
tion, assumed a staggered triangle, in
tiers of ships that rendered it a three-di-
mensional wedge. Powerful super-armored
spacers formed tire frontal line, while the
spacers they had been able to equip with
atomic projectors guarded the sides, ready
to meet encirclement. At the very apex
rode the Stellar Virgin, with Palanth’s
sectional flagship the Hellacorium one tier
beneath. It was a magnificent sight, and
viewing it through the Tele-Magnum, Mark
had a momentary lift of pride.

“Connect three-dimensional telecast,”
Mark ordered the robot, and instantly the
telepanel showed a scene as if it were an
open window on the heavens. In the dis-
tance racing at unimaginable speed, the
Ter ran Fleet flashed on majestically.

Breathlessly, the watchers on two worlds
eyed its inexorable approach. Suddenly,

THE STAR

from the vanguard of the Terran Fleet a
pencil of livid light speared an Europan
Spacer, and the great transport seemed to
disintegrate in space. Mark’s knuckles
were white as they tightened.

“Maneuver and blast!” He roared into
the radio, and in unison, but with verti-
ginous speed the Europa fleet became a
single perpendicular line that spewed atom-
blast in an awesome holocaust. But the
Terran Fleet came on unscathed. Simul-
taneously converging beams of livid light
shot out from its foremost cruisers and
a score of Europan Spacers crumbled into
dust. In desperation a flight of them
hurled themselves suicidally against the
driving Terran Fleet, and whorls of in-
candescence illumined the ghastly scene,
and it was then that Mark saw several
shattered Terran Spacers spinning down.

“We have no chance!” Mark gritted as
he saw the Europan Spacers disintegrated
in the awful struggle. “Murderers ! . . .
We’ll hurl all our remaining spacers against
the Terran Fleet; if that’s the only way
to shatter them, that’s the way it’ll be!”
As he was about to give the fateful com-
mand, the Panadur super-robot, who had
accompanied them, lay a restraining metal
hand on Mark Lynn’s arm:

“Wait!” He exclaimed laconically, and
pointed to the three-dimensional Tele-cast.
He flicked a tiny lever and made delicate
adjustments. As if seen through an ultra-
powerful telescope, a vast swarm of silver
specs were rising from Europa itself. With
dazzling speed many times greater than
that of the Spacers, the darting miniatures
grew in size. Presently they reached the
battle scene, and like metal hornets were
darting among the intermingled fleets, as
if seeking their prey.

From thousands of projectors of the
Terran Fleet, a myriad scintillating beams
crossed and criss-crossed the void like cos-
mic fingers, but the tiny ships in an un-
expected maneuver, excuted with dazzling
speed, had scattered, skimming, darting,
swooping like silver hawks, spreading like
an immense net over and beneath the Ter-
ran ships. Now, they aimed themselves
with unerring accuracy at the battle-giants
of the Council.

Dozens disappeared into puffs of bril-
liant light as the Terran beams found their
mark, but as the flagship of the Terran

GUARDSMAN 115

Fleet maneuvered into position to annihi-
late the on-coming swarm, a single silver
miniature crashed squarely against its
nose. As if a meteor had exploded in
space, there was a burst of intolerable
light blinding the watchers, and just as
they were able to see again, a salvo of
crashes became a flaming incandescence
that human eyes could never record.

When at last the awesome scene had
ceased, and they were able to open their
tortured eyes, the void was empty but for
a pitiful remnant fleeing pell-mell from
an enemy that became a living projectile
and crashed suicidally against their ships
with immediate annihilation to both. A
few silver bullets pursued them relentlessly
until distance swallowed them,

I N THEIR Europan ships, now being
tossed like leaves in a storm, no one
spoke. There were no words in human
throats that could shatter the brooding
silence in two worlds.

Even the sight of a thin, towering old
man, whose despotic face was blanched as
he gazed from the balcony above the Coun-
cil Chamber, was not enough to bring
back their speech. The head of the Coun-
cil, the Supreme Ruler had shown himself
for the first time in history!

“Fiends!” He croaked in a voice that
trembled with shocked unbelief. “Demons !
What manner of beings have you on Eu-
ropa that their bodies can shatter the Coun-
cil’s fleet? For this your world shall be
destroyed — utterly destroyed !”

“With what?” It was the Panadur
Leader speaking through his robot. “Listen,
O Man of evil! The five-hundred scien-
tists you sent to our world, no longer
exist. Their minds activate such robots
as you have never even imagined, Ver-
dugo is a robot himself — the robot whose
voice you are listening to, as my telepathic
commands reach its brain. You saw my
people hurling themselves against your
might and dissolving into radiant energy,
which we absorb directly from matter as
you absorb energy from food. We can
store it in our bodies, increasing it into a
potential which can be directed at will and
released with cumulative force. Nothing
in our universe can withstand that — and
we’re willing to die by the mililon that
Panadur may be free!”

STORIES

116 PLANET

“We shall make treaties with Mars and
Venus, to permit the millions of Terrans
to dwell on their Planets until we can pro-
vide habitation for them elsewhere. In the
meantime, take your choice, old man !
Your terror-reign is ended. We give you
the choice of the radiant death, or a space
ship to take you and your vermin beyond
the inner planets. You will be provided
with whatever you need — but the Council
must go forever!”

The Supreme Ruler realized defeat. He
had never granted mercy — he expected
none. His arms hung limp at his sides,
and his head with its smoldering, hatred-
filled eyes hung on his aged chest. He
gazed at the stunned assembly of scien-
tists below him and knew there was no
escape.

If he defied Mark Lynn and the Pana-
durs, the Terran Fleet would be utterly
destroyed and without that safeguard,
Mars and Venus would sweep them off
their planets. Everywhere his thoughts
turned he only saw death. And, as the
power he had held for years slipped from
his grasp, he became a gray, broken old
man who knew fear.

“We will go. International!” He flung
with one final sneer, as the hatred of a
trapped beast flamed in his eyes.

A S MARK LYNN manipulated the
keys and cut the connection, he found
a warm body being pressed against his,
and a tear-wet face that burrowed beneath
his chin. His arms went about Lucero.

“Crying, indeed! Where is the dignity
of a scientist, Doctor Fortun?” He
smiled with a vast tenderness.

“Damn scientists,” she exclaimed inele-
gantly, and burrowed deeper. “All I want
is to be a woman, Mark!”

At that moment the telepanel lighted
signaling and Mark connected again. It
was Palanth.

“Mark! Mark!” His face was alight
with triumph. But Mark did not answer,
for a new dawn was rising in his heart,
and Lucero’s lips were pressed to his.

The Martian went silent, scowled for a
moment and shrugged his shoulders, then
pressed a square of Venusian silk to his
supercilious nose in order to hide a spread-
ing grin.

HEY!

QUIT SHOVIN'!

No need to trample poor old
Uncle Dudley while the two of
you scramble around the news-
stand for your

1943

Illustrated

FOOTBALL

ANNUAL

Sure, you guessed right — there
won’t be so many copies this year
— paper shortage — BUT — why
don’t you and Uncle Dudley play
it smart?

ORDER IN ADVANCE
FROM YOUR
REGULAR DEALER

When we go to press we’ll cover
all such advance orders . . . that
way you and Uncle Dud’ll both
be sure to get the first and fore-
most, the one and original, big
red preview book that covers the
football realm from coast to
coast —

1943

Illustrated

FOOTBALL

ANNUAL

“Clear ether, Vizifanners 1” which is to say “Goodbye, and
good sailing to this issue.” For when you read this, the newest
■book of Planet Stories will be taking shape.

We rather like the Phoenix-like process of creating a new
issue of a magazine, for to us, at least, it is not a bundle of
pages clipped together, but is a thing of personality. Hours of
creative effort going into the writing of the stories and the
drawing of the illustrations. Other hours go into the actual
physical construction — and more hours are consumed later on,
when you readers pore over the pages.

There is something personal in that, something more than a
mere task— and we hope that you find many minutes of pleasure
from the hours of work which we have done in bringing this
issue to you.

Aside from that, we think you’ll like the group of letters
we’ve selected for you this issue. Ridiculous to the sublime, and
vice-versa; we’ve brought them all. Read them, be amused or
interested — then write us your own. This is your department, and
we want you to use it. Remember, tho, three typed double-
spaced pages are the limit. Write more — and watch them get cut.

But before we go, we just want to let the following know
that they have originals coming from the May issue of Planet
Stories, if they’ll drop us a card, indicating their choice.
1 — Leonard Marlow; 2 — James R. Gray; 3 — Milt Lesser,

CHAD SHRINKS (?)

3956 Ledgewood,
Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Editor:

Not in the least conceited over snaring second place in La Vizi,
our Loon Lad remains the same sweet, unspoiled boy of yester-
year, and once more, as in the past, he delights in romping mer-
rily through the hallowed and sacred pages of deah, deah PS.
Without further ado (loud cheers from the gallery on that
statement), our legendary hero toddles on to a report on the
Fall Planet.

As is customary, my grim scrutiny falls first upon that
which graces PS’s exterior, the cover ; otherwise known as
haul-out-the-ray-gats, — Joe; — the-monsters-are-after-your-
swe'etie-again. Well, much as I shrink from admitting the fact,
I liked Rozen’s latest effort very much. The background is
nice and not lurid, the Ship is cold and desolate, the cave-boys
are nice and gory looking, the hero looks like an Ovaltine ad,
and the girl . . . ah, the girl ! I must confess that if you must
have gals on the cover, I much prefer them to look like this.
A great improvement over the infamous firm of DS&A. (Drake,
Saunders, and Anderson.) Rozen is definitely here to stay.
But I am still waiting for a Paul or Finlay cover. Ah, youth
and its lost and shattered dreams . . .

With a feeble tap on a drum and a weak toot on a rusty bugle,
we come once more to the fictional contents of PS.

First place goes to Clifford D. Simak’s excellent “Message

117

118 PLANET

From Mars,” a really outstanding story. Not
only did Simak give us a tale with a plot rather
than a hodge-podge of incidents, but he gave us
some really credible characters. And he treated
us to that rarest of the rare thrills — no unwar-
ranted love interest. Let’s see much, much more
of Simak in the future, along with some other old-
time authors. Via the renowned 1 to 10 rating
system, invented and copyrighted by Chad “Loon
Lad” Oliver and five million other guys, Mr.
Simak gets a hefty 9.9J4.

Following not too far behind the first-place
yarn comes our old pal, Nelson S. Bond, with
one of his better efforts. Bond certainly has his
ups and downs, but this time he was definitely UP.
“Phantom Out of Time” is one of those stories
that holds one engrossed from first word to
last. Granted, much of the conversation was
overly melodramatic and reeked of corn, but
said fact did not, in my opinion, materially
detract from the story. Perhaps it even served
to make it stronger, by enabling Bond to put his
ideas across with greater ease and clarity. Hence-
forth, let’s try to keep Mr. Bond UP instead of
vice-versa. He’s too good an author to waste
on corn. 9.8.

Leigh Brackett, who always seems to place
among the top three, does it again with “Thralls
of the Endless Night.” I’ll leave the tearing apart
of this yarn to someone else, but I will mention
that whoever was responsible for that hideous
title should join the firm of DS&A in complete
oblivion. It was terrible!

Next, “Prey of the Space Falcon,” by Ye Edi-
tore. Very good, though that plot was rather
. . . uh . . . shall we say, “time-worn”? Good
handling was all that saved it. By the way, now
that you have written a yarn about Gene Hunter,
“The Space Falcon," I demand that your next
story be entitled “The Revenge of Loon Lad” or
something to that effect. 9.5.

Henry Hasse takes the number five spot with
his “Revenge of the Vera.” It gets 9.2.

“Mutiny in the Void,” by Charles R. Tanner,
comes next. It was a clever, well-written story,
and more from this author would fit in very
nicely to counterbalance the heavy science and
blood ’n’ thunder. 9.

Last place, I sadly relate, goes to Carl Jacobi
and his “Assignment to Venus.” I think that
Jacobi is working hard and has the makings, so
hang on to him. He just needs practice. 7.5.

At this point, I’d like to clarify my stand on
love interest in PS. I don’t object to a love
interest, IF it is adult, IF it is well-handled, and
IF it has a reason for being in the story. I DO
object to pulp heroines, an entirely different
thing from love interest. You know — Dear,
sweet, lovable, innocent Mary Ann gets abducted
by the hard, cruel space pirate and is being slowly
roasted over a blasting rocket tube when Our
Hero dashes in, mutters something like, “Oh, you
dirty cad, you!” shoots the whole mob of pirates
and rescues Mary Ann, after which — oh well,
you know the rest.

As for the artwork this time, I couldn't find
any. The Leydenfrost boys flopped. However,
they take first and second places, purely because
there was no competition whatsoever. Doolin
lacks every requisite of a science-fiction artist,
including imagination. As for Rubimor . . .
Well, I have written a poem. It’s long, but
don’t you dare cut it!

STORIES

NEVERMORE OF RUBIMOR!

Creeping, slinking into our magazine,

Quietly slithering, completely unseen,

Out of the darkness, out of the night,

Comes Rubimor — the new Planet blight.

Upon first glimpse, I let out a scream —

Could even an editor be so utterly mean?

I ran for the woods — quick as a bee,

To find my art critic — a bird in a tree.

Large, ebony black, and sinister was he
Perched on his limb, staring at me.

With feverish fingers I opened PS,
Shuddering anew o’er Rubimor’s mess.

The bird was a raven, wise with eagle-eye;

He shuddered — seemed as horrified as was I.
He peered solemnly at the work of Rubimor;
Quoth the raven — “Nevermore.”

And I, O Editore, do definitely agree —

Quoth the Loon Lad — “No more for me.”

Pray thee, Wilbur, do not be sore —

But remember the raven — nevermore!

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Cheer up,
folks, I’m almost done. Only La Vizi remains.

My sincere thanks to everyone who was kind
enough to vote for me in the Planet Sweep-
stakes. It would be both silly and futile to pre-
tend that I am not flattered by the honor. And
thanks, also, to the editor and his staff who
make it possible for there to be such a contest.
But now — on to The Big Three.

First, after much thought, goes to Vaughan
Ralf Heiner, mainly because I like his remarks
pertaining to Cummings. Viva! Next, Leonard
Marlow, not because I agree with him, but be-
cause he comes out and says what he thinks.
Good. Third, a tie between Paul Carter and
Milt Lesser, both of whom had excellent letters.
Also, Jay Chidsey, James Russel Gray, and Sarge
de Pina deserve at least a lusty pat on the back.
Tough luck, men — high competition this trip.

If Wilms Herbert would climb down off his
high-horse, he would get something, too. As it
is . . . oh well, perhaps I’m merely making moun-
tains out of mole-hills.

In conclusion, I wish Termite Rowles would
wreak his Curse of Cummings on me. A new
Cummings yarn every week? Brother, that’s
not any curse — it’s a gosh-darned blessing!

Sincerely,

Chap Olive*,

The Looney Lad of Ledgewood.

THE DROOLING DRIP!

1219 N. E. Roselawn,
Portland, Oregon.

Dear Editor :

“Magnificent,” murmured the Martian Mauler
as he gazed fondly at his latest puncture victim.
“I put my aivl into it.”

Ah, I could almost write a poem about the
cover on the Fall Issue of PS ; as a matter of
fact, I will.

“Muscular hero, feminine femme,

Purty black background, no BEM.”

Say, is that dame wearing a bathing-suit under
the cigar-wrapper? Or did Charles R. tan ’er?
Bootyful, simply bootyful. (Meaning the cover,
of course.)

THE VIZI GRAPH 119

POTSF. Why, Wilbur S.l " Calling Gene
Hunter!” Write “The Prey of the Asinine One”
next, yes? “No!” (While I’m at it, I will now
introduce my new rating system. Just count the
drool-spots after you read the story. The more
drools, the better the story. (POTSF gets seven
drools — good.)

POOT by Bond gets eight drools. Well writ-
ten, but I wouldn’t plant onions in that plot.
(Even green Plut -onions.) The — er — illustra-
tion gets one drool. (For the dame.)

MFM by Simalc gets seven drools. The Mar-
tian lilies were a little obvious. The illustration?
Doo(d)lin’ gets minus one drool.

TOTEN by Brackett rates ten drools. (Ghastly
rating system, isn’t it?) Wilms Herbert, take
heed. This Brackettale had FOUR DIMEN-
SIONS. The pic gets four drools, but Junior
isn’t as good as his Poppa.

("How did you get so cold, Henry?”

“I leid-in-frost.”)

The short-stories get six drools each. Doolin’s
pics are worth five. Too much Doolin this
issue. Bring back Paul, Bok, and Fox. Dolgov
would also be welcome.

To win pix, the Vizifanners write humus let-
ters. (Left out the “or” ’cause most of the
fans are minors, anyhow.) It a scribo epistulam
humorosam . (Humorosa does not mean “humor-
ous.” It means “all wet.”)

“I’m proud,” said the little chunk of iron as he
watched the metal space-ship. “My brother is
in that same rocket.”

Just to show you that my heart’s in the right
place, I’ll let you use my X-ray machine. (Maybe
I can do better with a story. The title is “Prey
of the Space Egull.”)

The ship thundered across the heavens, burp-
ing forth crimson flame. Wildly the wind
shrieked to denote its passing. (Do you also
offend? Use Snarp Soap.) It spun about, trail-
ing streamers of fire leaping forth. (Don’t let
this happen to you. Smoke Crawleys ; they’re
SO per cent cooler.) Slowly the ship settled to
the ground, issuing acrid fumes. (Let the fog-
horn be your warning: "P-U") Metal scraped
upon metal as Jupiter Joe staggered through the
air-lock. (Drink Dyspepsia Cola. It’s non-
intoxicating.)

“They . . . got me, Egull,” he mumbled as the
Space Egull rushed to his side. “They got me
this time.”

"Who gotcha, Joe?” cried the Egull, his voice
trembling with emotion. “Just tell me who, Joe,
and you will be avenged. Who gotcha, Joe?”

“The . . .” muttered the fallen man, clawing at
the Egull, vainly trying to rise. “The Draft-
Board, Egull. They have put me into 1-A.”

A comely wench all at once came upon the
scene. She was dressed in a synthestone tunic
and a platinum overcoat with U-23S buttons and
a metalloy lining. She looked slightly droopy.

“A wounded man 1” she exclaimed to the Egull.
“Get the lead out and call a doctor!”

“Them’s heavy words !” muttered Joe. “You
just weight, and you’ll be sunk.”

“You’re plumb crazy, you dirty sinker.”

“I think she is a. copper!” shouted the Egull,
dropping her into the machine to get a-weigh.

(“This is the last straw!” said the little kid
as his friends crowded around his ice-cream
soda.)

Sincerely,

G. Waible,

" The Asinine One.”

BLUEPRINT!

New York 14, N. Y.

Dear Editor: 26 Horatio Street,

When one Vizifan pans a particular story, says
it stinx — and the succeeding fan says that the
same story lives and breathes — additional com-
ment merely makes confusion more confused.
But when there are "common denominators” in
the Vizigraph letters, we may well seek the fire
under the smoke. Frinstance, both DE PINA
and ELOSEGUI turn thumbs down on the
“blood-and-thunder” school (?) of writing. The
use of the blood-and-thunder-plus-Superman
technique presupposes a very low mental level of
the readers. I resent that. Look at the way your
readers go for, and vote for, stories that HAVE
vastness, scope, and a type of social organism
portrayed which gives us something to aim at.
I seriously suggest that you bring the “blood-
and-thunderers” UP to the 12-year mental-age
level, if we must have ’em at all.

I am pleased to note that the concept I termed
“vastness” in a story has been recognized as a
desirable characteristic under such labels as
“scope,” “breadth,” etc., by other Vizi fans.
Planet needs vastness, scope, in its stories ; that
is what ranks P. S. above its rivals.

I am opposed to the criticism (?) of a story
simply on the grounds that it uses techno-rhe-
torical configurations per sc. (“ghastly green
ovoids” etc.,) and believe that the comment should
concern itself with how effectively the particular
device is used. IF their inclusion turns the story
into a proseversion of Superman, then I, too, say
thumbs down. But such writing CAN be ef-
fective; CUMMINGS uses it effectively in his
“good” yarns, and sloppily in his (so-called)
“hack” stuff. I believe that the primary concern
in review-comments should be: IS IT EFFEC-
TIVE as a means of creating a new “world” for
us, during its reading. Doesn’t someone agree
with me?

I don’t care if you are the Editor, I still think
that PREY OF THE SPACE FALCON was
the top-ranking story in the issue. Bond’s
PHANTOM OUT OF TIME and Brackett’s
THRALLS OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT tie
for second place, in my own humble opinion. I am
well aware that I may NOT rate stories according
to the accepted standards of the rest of the fans ;
perhaps because I’ve got a “queer” set of stand-
ards which I use as my yardstick. I’d like to
tell you about it:

It all boils down to why some people LIKE
Science-Fiction, and others DO NOT. Of those
who DO, some go for the “science,” some for the
“fantasy,” and others read s-f because thereby
they can get, vicariously, the “adventure” which
we’d all like to instill into our lives, which do
seem colorless at times, for us all. But ALL s-f
fans have one thing in common; they possess a
quality of imaginative daring. That’s what
makes them s-f fans. And this old world of ours
NEEDS lots of that! We’ve messed it up quite
a bit, this world of ours ; at least the degree of
social organization we’ve achieved leaves us little
to boast about to the visiting Martians. We are
being forced to a realization that the whole
human family is ONE family. It’s easy enough
to prefer one “branch” of that family to all
others, but sooner or later we’ll be forced to
rebuild that social organism into some semblance
of “one-ness.” We will need to PLAN a "world”
in which the priceless principles of democracy
are extended to ALL peoples, quite regardless of
“outer” differences.

120 PLANET

And that mil take “ imagination’’ ... IT WILL
TAKE DARING. It’s too easy to fall back into
narrow, provincial thought-patterns ; we must
avoid that. It will mean that a vast number of
people must catch the “dream” of a world united;
of a human family whose essential characteristic
is its organic unity. And where will we find that
vast number of people who have the necessary
quality of “imaginative daring”? I know of one
possible source; the readers of Science Fiction!
Haven’t we watched humans like ourselves striv-
ing to bring order out of chaos in tne most far-
flung reaches of outer galaxies? Remember
Leigh Brackett’s THRALLS OF THE END-
LESS NIGHT? Remember how those pitfu!
remnants of the descendants of a human sapce-
ship’s crew finally solved their dilemma?

Didn’t they discover that their “differences”
were a seeming only, and that in “unity” there
was more than strength ; there was a renewal of
purpose, and a rebirth of hope t Me, I lived
through that episode, and before I'd finished the
story, I was glad that I was human . . . glad
that I belonged to a race which would some day
put “force" aside in favor of common sense for
the settlement of differences. The quality of
“imaginative daring” has lifted man from the
level of the beasts ; it has shown him the advan-
tage of social cooperation for the accomplishment
of purposes which could not be achieved without
it. And one day it will solve those differences
which seem so nearly insurmountable now.

And how will this be done ? Not by “soldering
16 bus-bars, to a super-octo-plethoscope” certainly.
Not by the appearance of a Man of Wisdom
from Alpha Centauri who will lead us to hap-
pier days. By men and women just like you and
me ... by people with imagination enough to
see the solution of our problems, and with daring
enough to forge through to the end of them.
We who live in a democracy already know that,
deep in our hearts, whether or not we’ve “thought
it through!”

And so, I regard Science Fiction as the “blue
print of a dream” ... a dream that will one day
come into being because people like us, people
with imaginative daring, will take up the dream
and make it into Reality. That’s also why I’m a
pushover for such stories as Brackett’s
THRALLS OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT, and
for the work of such authors as DE PINA and
PEACOCK, and all the rest of them who DARE
to conceive of a world wherein humanity has
emerged from the chrysalis-stage of dream, and
has become ONE people, indivisible, with Lib-
erty and Justice FOR ALL.

And that’s why I like the VTZIFANS . . .
because they are the sort of people who will one
day help that dream to come true. Believe me,
I think it is a privilege to be a science-fiction
fan; it is a mark of distinction, and a proof of
possession of that “Imaginative Daring” . . . see
what I mean?

Now I’ve used up two and three-quarter pages,
double spaced, so soon. No space left to “dissect
stories, art- work, etc., individually. (Hear the
contributors sighing with relief?) Thanks to
CHAD OLIVER, MILT LESSER, JAY
CHIDSEY, and LEONARD MARLOW for
their bouquets. They warmed my heart, they did !

And thanks to you, Editor Peacock, for the
stream of stories which make up our “blueprint
for a dream.” What if some “hack-writing” does
slip in once in a while? You can’t possibly please
all of the fans, all of the time ... or had you
already guessed that?

STORIES

Stories give us imaginary characters to think
about, but the VIZIGRAPH gives us real people
. . . and if I’m any judge of personal worth,
they are “fine people.” Several of them (no
names, thus avoiding controversy) sound like
level-headed folks who take their fandom seri-
ously, but who aren’t above a bit of humor, even
caustic humor, when it is apropos. Me, I LIKE 1

Let’s all buy a lot of bonds and get this war
over with, so we can get Planet Stories back
on a monthly basis. Four-per-year is entirely too
few . . . and that in itself is reason enough to
get right out and fight! And so, friend Editor,
with a salute to yourself, and another for the
Vizifans, I am

Sincerely,

Alan Mannion.

OUR MALCONTENT!

Cloquet, Minnesota.

409 Twelfth St.

I am about to be transmuted into that special
region of space-time frequencies that results in
letters to the Editor and my frantic grab for the
typewriter. Here goes, for the Fall issue. Sorry
to hear you’re back on quarterly basis, which I
got from Unger’s sheet a month before this came
out.

By the way, I am expecting to get an “original”
for this letter. I’ve never even seen one of the
darn things; hope they look nice.

I will take the things in the order given in the
contents. First, the cover. The artist really had
a go at his erethism with it. I can only let out
a long low resounding whistle and wish that
they wouldn’t clothe them with so much “Clothes.”
I suggest you keep the blue background. Your
white one last issue didn’t work out so hot.

Now the stories : I rate them in A B C, etc.
system. I envy those guys who by some intri-
cate series of mental peregrinations can say :
“Hokus Q. Blank has written a fine story. Guess
I’ll give it nine point one zero eight." To my
mind, the nearest you could get to rating stories
and accurately at all is by something that may be
made to cover a lot of ground. A is excellent,
B is good, C is fair, D is poor, and F stinks.
May I say that this issue’s worst is D.

First comes Prey of the Space Falcon (Sorry,
Wilbur, first in order, not in excellence) by that,
Yours Truly, The Editor. It was space adven-
ture, not very high class, but better done than
usual.

Here I shall inject a pet subject of mine. How
about more intellectual appeal in the stories? Ad-
venture, as you have already learned from another
letter of mine that I doubt will see print, is very
tiring in more than medium doses. Isaac Asimov
had it, and so has Eando Binder, but in the lat-
ter’s stories it is woven in skillfully so you don’t
recognize it as such. You, Wilbur, had a very
tiny dose, which should have been enlarged upon.
By the way, your story got a not too well de-
served C.

Bond’s Phantom Out of Time. I wonder how
many times I’ve read this theme? Nels has a
sound narrative style, but his motivations and
incidents are artificial and stiff. C —

Message From Mars is a plot that I haven’t
seen used for years and years, written nicely,
stereotyped characterization. B —

Ah, now we get to something. It is bril-
liantly written, but at the end it gets a little

121

THE VIZI6RAPH

confusing. That seems to he its only fault. Leigh
Brackett, it seems to me, is just developing,
developing, to your prediction for her. A couple
more years of plugging away, Miss Brackett . . .
Strangely enough, it reminded me of two totally
dissimilar stories. The first quarter gave me the
impression of John Steinback’s Grapes of IVrathj
and the second half Robert Heinlein’s Universe
and Common Seme. It, I might as well tell you,
was a far cry from either, about a third propor-
tional to the two. Geometry students will no
doubt understand. This, of course, had not much
“intellectual appeal” and the plot was confusing.
Please tell Miss Brackett to stick to stories
without much plot, novels (futuristic, of course),
like Grapes of Wrath. But her characterizations
are quite good, and motivation excellent. I
gave it A —

Mutiny in the Void was an amusing little tale,
if you had enough morphine injected into you
first. The trouble was with the uncertain charac-
terization of the “farmer.” C — ■

Both the other short stories read like some-
thing the authors thought of after a delirious
dinner of blubber and whale oil and then sent
to Peacock because “he’s the guy what accepts
the Cummings stories and pays money for them
so these’ll sell like hot cakes.” Good God, what
have I thought of. There was no Cummings
here. D — both.

Now we come to that mightiest of depart-
ments wot gives out wit de opinions of youse
readers. (Sorry, Wilbur, I’m going on; have to
use of those three pages, you know) I really
have to laugh at some of the letters, not because
of the humor they try to put in it (most of it
being achieved by the use of trick words and
Stuff) all because of trying to win a few originals
to decorate their bare little dens. Who wants
originals anyway? (Editor will now discredit
that last statement as coming from an unbal-
anced mind, no doubt brought on by an excess
reading of Looney Laddies, Termite’s, Zwilniks,
and not to forget those two geniuses, the Happy
one and the Extraordinary one. Their at-
tempts are so obviously pitiful, compared to my
broad masterful covering of subjects concerning
Planet as I have done in this letter.

(I am here desperately stalling for time so as
to think of something witty to say that will
cinch me one of those originals.)

About the illustrations. Both Leidenfrosts
can’t draw. And if you have to have your
artists give female characters not too much ward-
robe, why not make them look seductive while
they’re at it. The Robimor for Bond’s wasn’t
so bad, but on Brackett’s tale. Aagh.

And then there’s the guy from the same state
as me who likes humor (and here’s where the
irony comes in) or irony in his stories. How can
that be ? Humor happens to be something entirely
different from irony any way you look at it.
Very few sf stories have irony— or humor
either, for that matter. But it would be an im-
provement if somebody would write a story in
an ironic tone for one. The story voted third
place in a poll to find the great ones of all time
was the most supremely ironical science fiction
story I have ever read.

By the way, what issue do you choose your
illustrations from (confident little cuss, ain’t I) ?
Is it the one immediately before the one in
which your letters are published? (Yes. Ed.)

Sincerely,

Ray Karden.

GIVE ’EM HELL, LEIGH!

Dear Editor:

I have just procured the new issue of Planet,
and am still drooling over the cover. Rozen
does beautiful work — even if, for some mystic
reason, the picture seldom has anything to do
with the text. Oh, well, who cares? His sense
of form and color is right up there with the
best, and for my money he does the best pulp
covers on the stands.

As usual, I turned immediately to The Vizi-
graph and devoured avidly all comment concern-
ing one, L. Brackett. And I am thereby im-
pelled, if I may, to say a couple of things.

First of all, my heartfelt thanks to all you
guys and gals who write in those nice comments.
Whenever I hit a low spot in my work, I think
of you and decide maybe I have a chance after
all. There’s nothing like a little praise to make
a writer work his head off, and believe me, I
appreciate it. However, in reply to Jay Chidsey’s
query as to whether I can take the sour with
the sweet — maybe he doesn’t read the Vizigraph
as carefully as I do! Some of the lads and
lassies really give out with the brass knuckles,
and on numerous occasions Brackett has been
left flat on the pavement, spitting out teeth and
wondering which way the truck went. Well, it’s
all in the game, and I’d rather be panned than
ignored. There’s always hope that maybe the
next yarn will look better to them.

And now for the chief reason for this letter.
I am somewhat astonished at the reaction to
CITADEL OF LOST SHIPS. The literary
merit of the yarn is beside the point, and I’d
hardly be competent to argue that, anyhow. But
the undemocratic thinking of at least two of the
critics causes me to gape. “We never feel sym-
pathy for the Kraylens, whose pitifully few
numbers and decadent state invite LIQUIDA-
TION.” . . the decadent, anti-social, unas-
similabte castaways . . . should have been fumi-
gated.” F’cripe’s sake! If that isn’t totalitaian
reasoning, I never saw it. Under democratic law,
any and every minority, so long as it functions
within legal limits, is guaranteed a right to live,
think, and worship as it sees fit. You might as
well say that we ought to LIQUIDATE the
Mennonites, the Amish, or any other decent,
peaceable group simply because they’re different
Even that word LIQUIDATE is undemocratic.
It implies the right of one man to decide whether
other men are fit to encumber the earth, and is,
I seem to remember, one of the reasons we’re
fighting a war. The castaways of Romany were
not anti-social. They didn’t hurt anybody. They
just wanted to be let alone to die in peace, in
their own fashion. And if they didn’t like the
way of life being imposed on them by aliens —
didn’t they have the inalienable right of free men
to preserve their own way of life whether the
aliens like it or not? The Kraylens, and Ro-
many, are pure fiction. But the reaction to them
shows a dangerous point of view. It’s well to
remember one thing, when you’re planning the
liquidation of minorities. Human society is a
fluid and unstable tiling. And it’s frightfully
embarrassing to wake up one morning and find
that all of a sudden you have become — a minority.

(Our sentiments, exactly. Ed.)

Well, that’s off my chest, and now I shall get
back to work.

Sincerely,

Leigh Brackett.

122 PLANET

OH JOY! OH JOY! OH JOY!

Dear Editor: San Bernardino, Calif.

Ah 1 — that May issue. It was excellent. More
than that. Super-Excellent I would even say
Colossal, but the word has no meaning, expresses
so little of what I mean.

Take that thrilling novel, ALCATRAZ OF
THE STARWAYS. MAGNIFICENT I Albert
DePina and Henry Hasse outdid themselves,
they outdid everyone else for that matter, as if it
mattered. How wonderful, how glorious, how
insuperable was that moment when lo — the War-
rior-Princess came! The story was the best I
have ever read. It even was as good as the edi-
tor said.

And the Sandhound! Words fail me. When
Ross Rocklynne spins a yarn, you can be sure
that it’s all bull and a yard wide. More than
that. Perhaps even a yard and a half wide. He
was called the Sand-Hound. How romantic.
How intriguing! He walked on his hind legs
and preyed on man. Marvoleous, if you will
permit me to coin a word, and how can you help
yourself. Marvoleous !

But as I approach the next masterpiece, I feel
an urge to fling the typewriter away from me.
If I have praised the preceding masterpieces, how
can I find mere syllables to express the wonder-
ment upon reading such a superduper. Keep
Leigh Brackett. Here’s an author with hair on
his chest. Er — it was grand, grandiloquent,
grandiloqueous ! I might even say it was good,
but how inexpressive I How inexpressive!

But, again I am up a stump, so to speak. Here
is a new author. A brilliant piece of work. The
METEOR MAKERS. Can you believe it?
After all these years, someone actually thought
of making a meteor. The idea is so fresh, so
devastating, so world-crushing, I can hardly re-
press — er, express myself. If one story alone
could make history, then this story is it. Why
don’t you confine your magazine to such splendid
narratives. Well told. Well written. Well
enough. There is a place for Peter Hamilton.
The world knows it. Peter Hamilton knows it.
So does the Vizagraph. Well now — Mr. Ham-
ilton.

If Hannes Bok is frightening in personating,
then how much more imposing is his literary work.
I approach this subject with care. Hannes Bok
is not only a super tale-teller, a spinner of tall
tales. He is also an author of some merit. A
reader is at once entranced and enhanced. He
hangs on every word, and just swings there gen-
tle-like. Really, Hannes Bok is on a par with
none other than that literary hobnob with the
bigdoers, that plutocrat of homosap, that excel-
lent and most honorary writer of great deeds,
ladeez and gentlemen need I say more, Hannes
Bok.

H. L. Gold. Even the name sparkles. The
story sparkles also. It’s the one story of the
book that should have been gold-plated. If I
could think of a tune to fit the words I’m sure it
would hit Carnegie Hall. All is not gold that
glitters. Indeed yes, but could you not say with
equal veracity: All that glitters is not Gold, but
if it is literary, then it glitters and is Gold. Heh,
heh. Catch on. See what I mean, you readers
from the back of 6B. All that glitters is not
Gold, but in a literary sense, H. L. Gold. Catch
on, kindergarteners. And you, honorable editor,
do you on the catch.

Richard Storey. Why, oh, why wasn’t his
name spelled Story. It should have been. It
was. It spelled an unexcelled story. MENACE

STORIES

OF THE MISTS. To think if I hadn't read
this story I would have MIST itl Oh, well, such
is life. Let me give you some excellent advice,
Mr. Editor. Hang on to Mr. Storey. No matter
how punk his manuscripts may read, you’ll always
know there’s a Storey there. And what a Storey.
The Mindless Horror from the Sea-Bottoms of
Venus. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, ad
infinitum.

And Guy Gifford. Is he GREAT. Do I laugh
myself, silly. Guy Gifford is really good. And
I do mean good. Spell it G-O-O-D. But no
matter how you spell it, Guy Gifford IS good.

Mr. Editor, let me congratulate you. I like
everything about your magazine. Your cover —
oh, grea — (Pardon me while I scan Roget’s The-
saurus) — I wonder how far Roget had to go back
in time to capture a Thesaurus. There’s an
article idea in that, Mr. Editor, take a tip from me.

I like your artists. I like them all. They’re
the best. I like the arrangement of your illus-
trations. I dote on the FEAURE Flash. I
tremble with joy upon reading the Vizigraph.
Again I congratulate you. The edges on your
magazines are just right. So are the staples and
pages. _ I even like the CONTENTS page. The
advertisements are just right to appeal to a
fellow of my mentality. Thank you, oh thank
you.

I congratulate you, Mr. Editor, on having such
a wonderful lot of stories. I congratulate you
on your writers. Best of the best. Your illus-
trators. Unbeatable! I congratulate you on
your editor 1 I congratulate you on everything.

Again I congratulate you, for having been such
an excellent arranger of super-stories and super-
artists that you have done the impossible. DONE
THE IMPOSSIBLE 1 I repeat it Almighty Ed,
DONE THE IMPOSSIBLE.

Your MAG WAS SO GOOD THAT IT
RATED A FAN LETTER PRAISING
EVERYTHING IN IT.

EVERYTHING IN IT WAS WONDER-
FUL!

Did you ever get a letter like that before? Did
any magazine ever rate a statement like that
before?

And with bated breath I congratulate you on
one final world-binding achievement I can not
bear to mention the subject except with bated
breath and trembling fingers.

I CONGRATULATE you, Mr. Editor, ON
HAVING SUCH A WONDERFUL READER,
Sincerely,

Prf.ntis Carver,
The Gory Goon.

MOVE OVER, WIZARD

Box 410, RFD — 1,
Lowell, Mass.

Dere Deer Dear Mr. Editor Peacock !

I am taking my pen in hand to give you my
opinion of the stories and pictures in your maga-
zine, as my typewriter is still in a pawn-shop on
Stamford St. in Boston and I will not be able to
get it for some time.

I do not read very fast.

I see by the letters in the back of your book
that it is very important to tell what stories and
pictures are bad, so I will do so, also what is
good in your Winter Issue 1940 Vol. 1 No. 5.

Your, cover is good, but the artist does not
draw girls good like the man who draws Flash
Gordon, and not with so much clothes on. I do
not like bugs and snakes on the cover.

“One Thousand Miles Below” was good but
I do not like stories about people who live in

THE VIZfCRAPH 123

caves and eat bugs. The picture is good but it
is to gray and not enough pretty girls without to
much clothes in it “The Castaway” was good
but I do not like stories about castaways.

“Atom of Death” is good but I do not see why
you print a story about air.

I did not read “Beyond Light” as I do not
like stories about bats.

“Exit from Asteroid 60” was very good.

The other stories were very good but not as
good as Flash Gordon, and no pretty girls.

As soon as my brother-in-law stops beating
my sister I will borrow a stamp from her and
throw this letter out in the street for our mail-
man to pick up. He is a R.F.D. mailman and
he rides in an automobile.

I would subscribe to your magazine only he
does not bring us mail any more, because our
mailbox is on a highway in front of the house,
and the highway people put their snow on our
mailbox. He will not walk through the snow,
and I do not like to shovel it, so I will wait for
the spring thaw.

I have just dusted of my Spring, 1941 book
and I will tell you about it soon. I found a
morning paper under it, and it says I will have
to register for a Selective service act which
Congress has just passed. I will do it some
day soon.

The people who write your letters in back
must be very smart people too.

My sister is back again, she says there are two
men downstairs who work for an F. B. I. Co.
They are probably more fire insurance salesman,
as we have a volunteer fire department, and we
had a fire in our backyard. I told them about it
on the telephone and then went out and put the
fire out.

When they finished their dinner they came to
put the fire out. I do not think they will come
again as they were very mad because the fire
was gone.

I will get rid of the insurance salesman and
write right away about this other book.

Sincerely. I remain your very respectful
friend and fan.

Joseph Hf.nsy ConnelL.

ALCATRAZ JUSTICE! OOPS!

The Chastleton,
Washington, D. C.

Dear Editor:

After a lot of mental gymnastics I finally
realized why my den is not covered with Planet
illustrations. After my initial success, I tried
like merry hell to write a letter that mould win
a pic — instead of using the Vizigraph for its
intended purpose. O.K., now I’m through with
that; from now on I tell you what I like — and
what stinks — and in three pages! Ready?

The Cover-. Rozen is your best cover artist so
far. He has good composition and his use of
color is almost on the pleasant side ; a fact which
will probably make some fans tear their hair.
Some of them seem to think that if the cover
doesn’t have a rainbow with St. Vitus dance on
it — phooey 1 No good 1

The Stories: Some of the blokes that have
been yelling for good material in Planet for so
long, should be satisfied with this issue. “ Alca-
traz ” is the best story you’ve published in Planet.
The characterization is excellent. The writing is
smooth. The reading even better. I enjoyed the
trick with Aladdo and Aladdin and the unusual
method of dealing with the menacing space fleet
Let’s have more like “Alcatraz!"

Just what Brackett's “ Blue Behemoth ” and
Gold’s “Grifters' Asteroid ” are doing in Planet
I’m still trying to fathom. I’m very much afraid
Brackett is leaning toward the hacky side — please
don’t encourage it.

Bok’s story was all right, but here and there
a few words gave the answer away too soon.
And whoever writes the blurbs — didja have to
use the word inhuman??? (Egad! Trapped like
the rat we are! — Ed.)

To me, “Meteor Makers" needed some polish,
but I enjoyed it because, combined with Paul’s il-
lustrations, I was once more wafted back to the
“good old days.”

“Sandhonnd” seems to come in with Brackett
and Gold. What’s buzzin’, cousin? Are things
and stuff changing for good old P. S.?

Which brings us to “Menace of the Mists.” I
enjoyed this one. The characterization was good.
It was very well written — they sure killed a lot
of them there bugs didn’t they?

“The Ringer Family Gifford’s good — grand,
gusty, guffaws greet Gifford’s gags — grazy??

Incidently, the new heading for the title page
is good.

Feature Flash: Enjoyed the Flash on Rock-
lynne — but I still don’t know very much about
him. Flash him again, and get him to loosen up
some more.

Illustrations: Don’t know who did the one for
“Alcatraz,” but I don’t think it quite did justice
to the story. Bob and Harry work much like
pop, don’t they? Saaf is gonna have to work
harder — better detail and more mass — otherwise,
put him in a Sports’ mag. Paul was the best
in the issue. But what about Lubbers — didn’t
you get something crossed — didn’t that belong in
one of the Western mags? Doolin? Give him
a few more chances — but he has a long way to
go.

Suggestion Dept.: sorry (theoretically in fine
print) but I only got one. How about boxing
one more story an issue? Give us one off-trail
yarn. Box it exactly as that — Planet’s Off-
Trail Story. Shoot the works with it — this
should give you an opportunity to pick up
something new and good — some of those yarns
you felt you had to pass up, because they didn’t
hit just right. Fantasy and sf readers are kind
of tangled up anyway. Give us a fantasy-sf yarn
— break from the title — use an Earth story. See
what I mean? Well — it sounded good to me!
(Sounds good to us. How about it, Vizifanners?
—Ed.)

I haven’t used all of my three pages yet, but
I’ll knock off anyway. Keep up the good work —
and by that I mean superb stories like “Alcatraz."

, Sincerely,

William Conover — The Nothmg-as-yet,

THIS CUY IS SORE!

18 West Huron Street,
Dear Editor: Chicago, Illinois.

I am a radio announcer, erstwhile engineer — •
(Don’t like latter profession), read Planet
Stories for (frankly) “escape. . . .”

I have been reading P. S. for some time— and
enjoying it. I have also been reading the “Vizi-
graph” to see what the “Dear Readers” think,
and I’m disgusted, no end ! I I’ve noted that the
majority of those letters PAN everything. No-
body likes nuttin’— or so it seems. If this is true,
why don’t said Vizifans read another mag? Who
in hell is John Doe, Mechanic, to tell James
Scratchalot, writer, how to write fantasy? Can

124 PLANE T

you tell me? Personally, I like your mag, and
enjoy the major portion of its contents. And,
I can understand that other individuals have in-
dividual tastes — very true — BUT ! ! Here’s an
Open Letter to “A Portion” Vizifan clientele :

“Read for enjoyable relaxation — respond broad-
mindedly, and criticize constructively — or SHUT
UP I ! In other words, we’re not ALL critics of
the forty-second water, we're just readers.”

And, Dear Ed, I know whereof I speak. I’ve
been in my job a “little while” — have learned that
in radio, as in publication writing, RESULTS
are shown by SALES 1 ! A radio fan either likes
a show, and LISTENS — or he doesn’t, and like-
wise, doesn’t I So it seems, it would be with
fantasy readers.

P. S.’s writers have my sympathy. It has
been my lot to write more than 985 shows for
radio production — perhaps mediocre, but salable.
I know what it is to go sleepless, thinking up a
new angle, a gag-line, a plausible climax — to de-
cide whether to kill Mrs. Prittlepratt or not — and

it gets d tough at times ! ! A writer can have

a fertile brain, and still have a tough time find-
ing virgin ideas. A parallel— $1,000,000 awaits
any composer who can write eight bars of
“original” music. — (Write U. S. Bureau of Busi-
ness Credit Ratings for further info.)

Well, I’ve vented my spleen — made somebody
mad and appeased my conscience by coming to
the aid of the editor and P. S. Now,

If anyone wants to take exception to above
thoughts, and desires a further discussion — I'm
still buying P. S., and enjoying it — reading the
Vizigraph — and wondering, “Could I paraphrase
a bit — ‘That which we call a rose, would, by
any other name, smell as sweet’?” — as I read a
few of the rank rantings of a few self-appointed
"second printing” editors.

Sincerely,

Bob R. Gibson.

SCOURGE JN A GOOD MOOD!

Box 165,

St. Anthony, Ida.

Dear Editor:

P. S. continues its strides toward the top with
this issue (May). Something new has been
added. I’m referring to that perfectly scrump-
tious heading for the contents page. It adds life
and sparkle to it and sets it off swell.

I also see more new names on the contents
page. At least new to me. I believe P. S. intro-
duces more new material to the science fiction
field than any other mag. And usually the new
names give some keen competition to the old-
timers. (You’re right. — Ed.)

Now let’s dig into the reading matter this trip.
This matter seems to be an excellent batch, too.
That feminine phenomena, Leigh Brackett, walks
off with the blue ribbon this time. No. 1 goes to
"The Blue Behemoth.” Let’s have some more of
those interplanetary circus stories handled by the
very able Miss Brackett.

No. 2 — "Alcatras of the S tarway s.” DePina
and Hasse seem to be a good team. I didn’t
especially care for the ending though. With all
the beautiful girls of Earth he had to pick a
Venusian heroine. A dreadful shame, I calls it.

No. 3 — "The Sandhound.” So there are even
Robin Hoods in the far future. Rocklynne did
a pretty good job on it, anyway.

No. 4 -—"Menace of the Mists " I liked this
short, the first I’ve read of this author’s work.

No. 5 — "The Meteor Makers .“ Another new
science fiction author for me.

STORIES

No. 6— "Stranger from Space.” Hannes Bok.

No. 7 — "Grifters’ Asteroid." H. L. Gold.

There wasn’t one of these stories that I didn’t
like. Maybe I was in a good mood when I read
them, maybe.

Artwork is keeping up with the stories in
quality. Rozen gives us another good cover. First
place goes to Paul for the Hamilton story on
the inside. Second and third go to Harry and
Bob Leydenfrost, respectively. I’ll bet they will
go far in illustrating, if they stick to science fic-
tion. (Br-r-r-r-uph — clear my throat). Fourth
to that guy Saaf. The first good one I’ve seen
by him. Fifth to the unknown artist on pages 2
and 3. Sixth to Doolin and last to Lubbers, the
only one I didn’t like. Four bells to the “Ringer
Family.” That guy, Guy Gifford, is good. He
actually made me laugh.

Aha ah-hal Now we come to the dear old
Vizigraph which, if possible, is better than usual.
The Scourge will now go into his routine con-
cerning all fans. Chad Oliver — If the cover is
done very good what difference does it make
what the theme is. The same to Larry Shaw. I
like to see the triangle of hero-heroine-monster
because I am anxious to see what new kind of
monsters can be thought of. Nanek — Is that your
real name or an alias? Probably an alias. You
wrote a swell letter — from the second paragraph
on. Careful how you talk about us readers. Some
one may decide to get revenge and send the fork-
eyed varma-snake of Neptune after you. Every-
one spoke well of Cummings this time except
Hunter (whatta crumb) and Carter.

WHEN DO WE GET TRIMMED EDGES?
HUH! WHEN DO WE?

Sincerely,

Clinton Blackburn — Scourge of the Vizigraph.

QUARTERLY IT IS, SIR!

156 S. University Street,
Dear Editor: Blackfoot, Idaho

The May issue of Planet is quite the worst in
some time, I fear. It betrayed an almost total
lack of the many features that once had Planet
near the top of the list in science-fiction, and
punctuates Lesser’s remarks with a most un-
pleasantly real affirmation. May I suggest, as
I have twice before, that Planet go back to
quarterly format?

It was the quarterly that brought us Binder’s
"Vassals of the Master World ” with all its
sweep and strength; Van Houten’s “The Last
Martian,” that echo of yesteryear; Rocklynne’s
great Hallmyer tales ; Moskowitz’s “Man of the
Stars”; Brown’s "Star-Mouse” and so many,
many others. And what has the bi-monthly
given us, after three issues of publication? Rock-
lynne’s "Slaves of the Ninth Moon.” That’s all!
And that story shouldn’t really be counted, being
part of a series. . . .

Well, gang? What do you think?

Now take this issue, for instance (go ahead,
you can have it, except for one or two things
which I will comment upon as we come to them).
Starting with the cover. Here we have a typical
Planet cover-scene — guy and gal fighting off
Things — played straight, with no redeeming quali-
ties whatsoever. None of the .coloration of
Anderson; none of Leydenfrost’s ability and
imagination; no Paul gadgetry, Bok grotesquerie,
or Finlay beauty. Nothing! Nothing but the old,
familiar guy and gal battling unbelievably-colored
bug-eyed monsters beneath an unpleasantly con-
trasty masthead.

THE YIZIGRAPB 125

Look at the artwork. There’s Paul, and Harry
Leydenfrost, and— that’s all. Paul is his usual
self ; one of the few tilings about this issue that
is worth saving. He at least has imagination and
some experience behind him. Young Leyden-
frost is good — just that. His “Sand-Hound’' pic
at least manages to get into Rocklynne’s mood —
with its overall “sandy" effect — which is more
than the others do. But the jerk who illustrated
“Alcatraz of the S tarway s " — well, undergradu-
ate” is as concise a term as I can think of right
now. Bob Leydenfrost could probably equal,
maybe outdo, his brother — but not with the draw-
ing he turned in this time, a very poor and un-
realistic job. Saaf’s pic looks like, a tangle of
foliage— just that. The Lubbers’ pic must have
strayed in from a comic mag — that same meller-
dramraer, two-dimensional style. Ditto Doolin,
who is in some ways worse than Lubbers.

Now, having polished off the art — wait. There’s
Gifford’s cartoon. The gag as usual is corny,
but the picture displays such a pleasing whimsy
and fanciful buffoonery that it, too, becomes one
of the items worth saving. I rated it above Paul.

As I was saying — the stories.

I never hope to see Miss Brackett do such a
poor job again as she did this time with “The
Blue Behemoth.” It’s the first of her stories
that’s really dragged. Then, too, she usually
saves hackneyed plots with good development
and strong character-drawing. Both were miss-
ing here, leaving only the hack elements. Gow
might have been a good character but was lost
in the whirl of action. The monsters might have
been built up if they hadn’t been so busy tearing
down the village. In short, if about 30 per cent
of the wordage had been cut out and a lot of
characterization and description substituted for
some of the fast action, the yam might have
been a bell-ringer. As it stands, however — a
dud, pure and simple.

Also a dud was “The Meteor Makers." De-
spite the fact that the story raced like a chap
with wasps in his pants, it failed to excite — be-
cause it was so fast that it left the poor reader
far, far behind. The characterization was worse
than “Blue Behemoth” — the people were mere
hat-racks on which to hang the adventures. The
astronomy was absurd — “Light Year” and “Par-
sec” refer to DISTANCE, not to time. The
caser -disintegrator should have been planted
earlier in the story; where it is, it gives the
effect of the old hat trick — nick-of-time rescue
hack. The suspense was infinitesimal — I didn’t
give a hoot which side won.

Next to be tom apart is “Menace of the
Mists.” This isn’t so bad — it gets a rating of
“fair.” It at least beld my attention all the way
through; the idea, while, old, is. sensibly devel-
oped; and the characterization is nebulous but
at least exists.

Likewise rated “fair” is the lead story, “Alca-
traz of the Starways.” The setting of this one —
the swamp — was, in fact, rather good; but there
was nothing to the rest of the yarn at all. If
an author has a man from Earth fall in love
with as nonbuman a being as Aladdian, he ought
to explain some of the why and wherefore —
that part of the story fell flat. Also, the ending,
which could have been so powerful, was mined
by brevity and vagueness of treatment

Bok’s “Stranger From Space” was his first
story to rate less than “good,” and was a dis-
tinct disappointment. Where are this author’s
usual beautifully eerie descriptions, his fantastic
settings? The idea alone is not good enough to

save the story, so this, too, gets a rating of
“fair.”

But “The Sandhound” was good. The charac-
terization was a polished, professional job; the
setting was good, and well put across. The idea
of the importance of pure sand to a Martian
glassmaking concern is nice, and the plot-struc-
ture is put together quite deftly. But all must
confess that Rocklynne has done much better.

And finally, “Grifters’ Asteroid” is good. Not
exceptional, but a clever piece of work. These
pleasantly conscienceless chaps somehow possess
a curious appeal; the devious swindles back and
forth were really funny. “Grifters’ Asteroid” is,
in fact, by far the best story in this issue. In
other issues, it wouldn’t be noticeable, but after
such tripe as “Blue Behemoth” and “The Meteor
Makers” it reads like something very worth-
while. A buttonhole bouquet for printing it.

Well, that ought to leave a good taste in Ye
Editor’s mouth, perhaps inspire hm to lift the
mag back up to the heights.

And having said, he holds his peace.

Sincerely,

Paul Carter,
The Merely Quasi-Human.

KNOW? HECK!

WE SPIN LIKE A TOP!

1919 Kishwaukee Street,
Rockford, Illinois.

Dear Editor :

After reading many letters printed in the Vizi.,
I sometimes wonder if the editor knows which
way to turn, whose stories to print, or what
artists to use. There is a certain group, I will
not indulge in personalities, that enjoys filling
two or three columns of paper in the Vizi.
Beware Paper Hogsl

The five top stories :

1. Star of Panadur — Hasse and De Pina —
Typical of Hasse.

2. Oridin’s Formula — Winterbotham — Makes
you think.

3. Cosmic Castaway — Jacobi — well worn plot,
but he “dood” it.

4. The Flame Breathers — Cummings — Some
of the best science-fiction is printed under his
name.

5. Slaves of the Ninth Moon — Rocklynne —
Scientifically unsound — Movement of the core
would result in the planet breaking up — any one
care to argue the matter? Three other stories
also got by the editor — Maybe I should try to
slip one by him.

Art work is not for me to criticize, but I say
the best pic is Paul’s on Page 71. I have an in-
significant suggestion to make for the cover —
Velvet space — one of Right’s spatial craft — and
nothing more. Where is Guy Gifford’s cartoon?

Now for the trivia — I’m not an agent of Van
Houten’s, but in “The Last Martian” he has
material for a novel greater than Robinson Cru-
soe — IS HE DEAD? Although I’m only a small
voice, I should like to see Conover rewarded with
an original for his prodigious efforts in the Vizi.
Future Planet improvement: 17S pages — weekly
— 100 page novel — 50 pages of short stories— 25
pages of Vizi and Features.

Gee I hope this isn’t over one column.

Sincerely,

Robert Glenn Anderson,
The Mental Ultimate.

126 PLANET

QUESTION 13!

1151 South Broadway,

Los Angeles.

Dear Editor:

So — Planet goes quarterly again?

Boy that brings the war close to home, doesn’t
it? Made me so damn mad when I heard the
news I went back to my draft board, sailed past
the reception desk and shouted at the clerk:
“When you gonna take in fathers? I want to
get at this guy Hirohito.”

He looked the great Gifford over and says:
“What the H — ? You had another fight with
your wife.”

I didn’t bother to tell him what was the trou-
ble. I turned and sadly walked away. I couldn’t
explain to him about science-fiction — he’s too sane.

i’ll get in this war yet — I’ve been reclassified
so many times I feel like the want ad section of
a newspaper. While we’re on that subject, if
you know any “fore-effs” who like to work for a
railway have them contact me. The mental ex-
amination isn’t as hard as the physical exam.
For the physical, the doc puts a thermometer
in the applicant’s mouth, and if he’s warm, he’s
hired.

But back to the paper shortage — I have an idea.
An idea how we can make Science-Friction come
regularly — bimonthly. Let’s develop a new type
of fiction writing. Let’s title them “Telegraphic
Tales.”

This plan would simplify the publishing, solve
the paper shortage and give us several more pages
of letters in the Vizigraph (though it is getting
a bit Hacky, ed., and if it doesn’t pick up I’m
going to have to start reading the stories just to
get. my money’s worth).

Here is a sample of a telegraphic tale:

Title: Beauty and The Beast, or if you want
to be different, “Beast and the Beauty.”

“Boy bumps into blonde. Blonde busy beating
about bush dodging hungry Whiffledorf. Boy
and blonde battle beast. Beast feasts. Boy emp-
ties bicarbonate while being swallowed by strange
beast. Beast belches.”

Now there, dear Peacock, is a tale with science
— the boy was carrying a ton of bicarbonate.
With action. Picture, if you can, a Whiffledorf
belching. See what I mean by action. The love
interest is developed when the boy and blonde
are going down the hatch. The moral, for those
who have to have morals — is always carry your
own baking soda unless you eat in a restaurant
that puts it in the coffee.

Of course it has a very happy ending. I’m
sure every one of our millions of readers will
feel relieved when the beast belches.

Now to the Vizigraph.

There’s too many geniuses floating around.
There’s the Happy Genius, or is it Slap Happy?
Then there is Genius Extraordinary. Don’t you
think that’s overdoing the Genius thing? My
suggestion is for the letter writers to wait until
other letter writers had given them nicknames.
I’m sure those titles would be much more inter-
esting. Jay Chidsey’s letter was best in the
Vizigraph until he added the Jap story which
has been more or less overdone recently. Be-
sides he spelled Gluckstein’s name wrong. A
very clever lad and I, too, like his work.

In answer to James Russel Gray, who should
have first place, because of a swell lead into his
letter, the reason no Gifford letters have come
to Vizigraph for months is because I had one of
those government questionnaires to fill out

STORIES

You know what that is, or are you one of
those fortunate enemy aliens?

As you have heard, perhaps, question thirteen
is "Have you ever been in an insane asylum?”

I answered it truthfully, “No.”

But the other day when the thing was finally
finished and my secretary mailed it she added a
postscript in the place marked for “Remarks:”
Note. Question to number thirteen is now “Yes.”

Albert De Pina’s note was very pleasant. His
description of the desert was nicely done — what
there was of it.

It’s rather hard for a writer, professional, to
swing into the free and easy “Don’t give a damn”
style of these letter hacks. Letter hacking is a
business all its own. Some day it will be fea-
tured in the front of the mags.

And so I’ll close for now, friend Peacock, with
a little proposition. I’ll trade you three red
stamps, or one “A” ticket for the phone number
of the blonde on the cover of the mag.

(Let’s not get nosey, Bub! Ed.)

Sincerely,

Guv Gifford.

ANOTHER NEWCOMER!

545 West 111th St,
New York, N. Y.

Dear Editor:

I’ve never written to a Science-fiction mag
before, so I thought it’s about time I announced
myself. I am, like most other Scientifiction
readers, a genius. (Not a happy one, like Milt
Lesser.) But, unlike most Scientifiction geniuses,
I don’t boast about it. I don’t have to boast
about it. It shows all over my face. It shows in
the way I talk and write, so, naturally, I don’t
brag about my being a genius. But enough of
this irrelevant (I picked that word up for 2 bits
from my cousin) twiddle-twaddle about myself.
We come to the subject at hand. Planet Stor-
ies. We shall start with the covers. When, oh
when, dear Wilbur Scott Peacock, do we get rid
of the BEM’S (this time with antennae and
tentacles at the same time, yet), the mightily-
muscled hero (outnumbered as usual), and the
beautiful heroine? (this time clinging to a rope,
like a female. Tarzan). Why not a cover with
some spaceships blasting each other out of the
skies, with the hero winning for a change? The
May cover picture scared my poor pappy half
to death.

Now, we come to an important part of any
magazine. The stories. To rate them I will use
a 0 to 10.23 basis, I figured out in one of my
lighter moments. I will also take the illustra-
tions for each story as we come to it.

Here’s the way they rate:

(I don’t think there was one outstanding story-
in the ish.)

1. “Alcatraz of the Starways” by De Pina and
Hasse. — 9.02 is what it rates. An old plot, writ-
ten up newly and well. Can always depend on
Hasse. But the illustration I

The artist must have been scared to sign his
name. What a piece of trash!

Alladian looks like she’s gonna fly away instead
of save Mark.

2. “The Blue Behemoth” — 8.00. I am disap-
pointed in Miss Brackett. For an author like
her to turn out trash like that. (Even though
it was 2nd best.) I was disgusted with the whole
issue. (Though only slightly.) It is way below

THE VIZI GRAPH 127

her usual level. After the improvement of your
magazine m the issue before this, you sure took
an awful flop. I’ll be waiting for the next issue
to see if you can soar back to the wonderful
heights of last issue. Here's hoping 1 As for
the pic. of the “Blue Behemoth Maybe it’s
the subject Bob had to work with, but Poppa
Leydenfrost had better give Bob a few more
lessons.

3. “The Meteor Makers” — 7.99. I liked this
story immensely. I, myself, don’t know how it
got down to 3rd place. It lacked a certain some-
thing. However, I was pleasantly amazed that
Sullivan didn’t turn out to be an agent of the
Space Guard. The pic’s by Paul, so it naturally
was good.

4 . “Grifters Asteroid” — 7.66. Fine Humor but
it ended off rather weak. The illustration was
a little below average.

5. “Menace of the Mists” — 7.5. Average. Or
just a little better than average.

Doolin’s illustration was fine. In fact, ex-
cellent.

6. “Stranger from Space” — 7.4. Old, old plot.
But Bok gave it a new twist. The illustration
was good.

7. “The Sandhound” — 6.00. After the Master-
pieces Rocklynne usually turns out, this one was
hade. Looks like he turned it out in 15 minutes.
Pure Adventure. It would have made a good
Western. Give Ross Rocklynne another chance
to redeem himself in the next ish, which I’m
sure he will do. Now the illustration comes.
Magnificent, perfect. The Real Leydenfrost
touch. Harry is really carrying on for the fam-
ily. The best pic in the magazine.

Now for a separate resume of the pictures.
The best, as I’ve mentioned already was Harry
Leydenfrost’s for “Sandhound.” Second was
Doolin’s for “Menace of the Mist” Plenty of
action. Third was Paul’s for “Meteor Makers.”
I don’t have to go over his qualities. Special
mention for Saaf in “Stranger from Space,” and
B. Leydenfrost, even though the pic wasn’t so
good. He looks like he could go to town.

Now don’t get the idea I didn’t like this issue,
even though I’ve been “Riding it down.” I just
expected more. I’m pretty sure you’ll bounce up
to all my expectations. We can’t be perfect all
the time. Oh, well, look at me. I almost forgot
the Vizigraph ! Unpardonable ! My genius made
me remember in time. The Vizigraph was won-
derful as ever. Better than last time. It gets
better with each issue. Top honors are going to
Allen Mannion, direct from one genius (me) to
him (another genius). Second to Chad Oliver,
the Ledgewood Lark. And Third to Jane Garvi-
gnon. I’m running out of Rocket Fuel now
so . . .

Sincerely,

David Bellin,

'(Manager, Rocketeer’s Hotel on Planetoid 62.)

CERCEN’S PRETENDING!

636 W. 3rd Street,
Hastings, Minn.

Dear Editor :

Something which I have longed to see on
Planet Stories since its inception is a really
good cover painting. Why can’t your cover illus-
trators portray scenes other than the customary
hero - and - scantily - clad - heroine - attacked -

by - alien - monstrosities? There are probably
any number of passages in the stories which
could be capably portrayed instead of the now
timeworn free-for-all pictures.

The stories in the last issue were all good,
as were the accompanying illustrations, with the
exception of the one for Brackett’s tale.

My particular choice for best in the issue is
Carl Jacobi’s “Cosmic Castaway.” While not a
classic of science-fiction, this piece of writing
intrigued me because of its style, reminiscent of
some of the science-fiction we used to see years
back. The Paul pic for this story was good.

Ross Rocklynne is another writer who never
fails to please my tastes. His “Slaves of the
Ninth Moon” was second only to Jacobi’s opus,
and held my interest all the way.

John L. Gergen’s letter in the readers’ section
is most interesting. If the chap dislikes the mag-
azine so, why in the name of Ghu doesn't he
stop reading it? Frankly, I believe he only likes
to see his gripings in print, and doesn’t really
hate PS as he pretends tol

I’ve been reading PS ever since the first issue,
and find that I get more all-around enjoyment
from it than I do from any other s-f publication
now being sold. I like your editorial policies,
the stories you publish, and the format.

Sincerely,

John M. Olson.

HAIL THE DWELLER!

1132 South 3rd St. — Apt. No. 2,
Louisville, Kentucky.

Dear Editor:

I have pulled a low-down, dirty trick on
Science-Fiction 1 I am a jerk of the lowest order!
Verily, sir, I am a cur 1 But don’t take my word
for it; I’ll qualify my every statement.

You see, for more than ten years now, I’ve
read every piece of Science- and Fantasy-Fiction
that came within shooting distance of a Zatch-ray.
And never — not once, mind you — have I taken the
time to write to any magazine, expressing my
sincere appreciation for so many pleasurable
hours of “escape.” I have cussed the Authors,
the Editors and the Artists; I have turned right
around and praised them all to the high Heavens ;
but all to myself. I am the original “Dweller
in Darkness.” Now, that’s a dirty trick to pull
on anybody; therefore, I shall crawl ont of my
hole in space, and give vent to — give vent to —
well, whatever it is that one gives vent to under
such circumstances.

Hull the Dweller!

Now — let’s get down to the business at hand.
First off, let's get one thing settled once and for
all time to come; namely, the question of what
to do with Ray Cummings. Personally, I’m
neutral in the battle of gripes concerning his
works. I haven’t read one of his stories since the
“Atom” series degenerated into whatever it is he’s
turning out now, but I’ve got something here that
I’m definitely in favor of : Let’s either lock the
editorial door on him and shut up about his in-
abilities as an author, or — let’s keep on printing
his stuff for those who do seem to like it, and stiU
shut up about the aforementioned inabilities! In
order to please a greater number of readers, I
should say off-hand that the latter suggestion
takes care of the problem. By all the Pigs of
Circe, if the boys “over there” were fighting the

128 PLAN ET

Axis as hard as the Vizifans are fighting Cum-
mings, the war would have been won long, long
ago. But whichever course we take, in the name
of all the Gods, let’s shut up about the Works of
Cummings ! I’m sick of reading all these gripes 1
Surely there’s something floating around in the
Cosmos somewhere that we could get up a good,
meaty feud over besides one man ! Now shut up !

Well, I feel much better now. That’s been
bearing down on my alleged chest for quite a
spell, and I’m darned glad to get it off.

I suppose I might as well rate the stories in the
March issue now as any time. So, here goes,
using the most accurate rating' — that of 1 to 10,
with 10 being the highest rating any story can
achieve :

“Slaves of the Ninth Moon’’ — 9.5 ; Rocklynne
is still right up there as far as I am concerned. I
liked his delicate treatment of the last seven para-
graphs. The struggle for domination between
the two minds, and finally, the Old Man’s thoughts
on Space were very nicely handled. A darned
good yarn!

“Citadel of Lost Ships” — 9.4; This Brackett
has a style that does something to me. Could be
she cooked up a new idea there, too. Can’t
think where I’ve read of such a conception before
— maybe I haven’t. Give her credit, anyway.

“Star of Panadur” — 9.4; Can’t imagine why
one of the shorts came in neck and neck with a
novelette. Must be the way a simple plot was
built up with a nice flow of the King’s English.
I just wonder where dePina stopped and Hasse
began on this one? Hmmmmm?

"Cosmic Castaway” — 9.3; Lord! What a title 1
Sure, it fits the story, but — ! Sounds like “The
Plight of Penelope 1” Give it fourth place. Jacobi
has a nice style of putting words together, but I
can't go for this one too much. I read it first,
too, so I wasn’t worn out when I got around to it.
Maybe it’s the coffee rationing.

“Sword of Johnny Damokles” — 9.3 ; Something
in this one that fascinates me somehow. Perhaps
it’s the deft handling of the Greek trying to speak
American. Can’t think of any other reason for
liking it.

“Oridin’s Formula” — 9.0; So the most dreaded
man in all space lays aside his gun, enters into a
discussion with the man he came to murder, and
winds up figuring himself into a blue funk, eh?
Tch, Tch!

“Trouble on Tycho”— 8.5 ; Maybe somebody
will explain how a combination of sounds could
penetrate the stone armor of those Grannies and
kill ’em without killin’ the Wonder Boy, too.

“The Flame Breathers” — ; (See para-

graph four.)

I agree wholeheartedly with brother Verity,
when he says that you are giving us the oldest
type of true Science-Fiction — the interplanetary
yarn. But even at that, I can feel a longing for
something that the “Old Boys” had; some in-
tangible something that just isn’t in the new
stories. Maybe it’s because SF was a new field
then, and it was a new adventure every time I
read a story. For at that time, plots were things
that people didn’t rewrite over and over again;
they didn’t have to. Stories like "Invaders from
the Infinite," and “The Legion of Time.” There
was a yarn that expounded an entirely new con-
ception of Time travel and the relation of prob-

STORiES

ability to possibility. By the way, that theme
hasn’t been touched upon, either. All sorts of
possibilities in there for an enterprising author.
The question I’m asking is, What’s happened to
the Science in Science-Fiction? Can it be that
we are getting so accustomed to reading of things
that, ten years ago, would have been new to us,
that we take them for granted? That happens
with everything else, you know: Radio, movies,
television. We simply accept them as facts, and
let them go at that. Have the authors run com-
pletely out of material, or have the readers
reached the stage where nothing is new any more?
’Tis indeed a sad state of affairs. Now — I have a
twenty-thousand word concoction that — ooopsl

And another thing — ! For golly sakes, put
those two staples back in the paper ! I had pages
from Planet Stories all over three rooms be-
fore I got through the first story this issue. I
know there’s a shortage of metal, but this can’t
go on! You might try tying it up in pink ribbons
like a scrap book; at least, the book would stay
together until a body could finish reading it!

What’s all this about you using a pen name on
your stuff? What’s that for? Don’t you trust
your dear readers any further than that? Cer-
tainly we don’t want you to use a pen name ! If
you’ve got something that’s worth printing, it Is
certainly worthy of your own good name, isn’t it?
Now, go stand in the corner ! By the way, “Planet
of No Return” was very well written. So there!

Let’s take a bite at the art work, shall we?

First, the cover : Whooooeeee ! Where did you
get this boy, name of Rozen? This cat’s hep to
the jive! He really comes on! The man can
paint like all get out ! Shading, detail, coloring —
first choice for prize! It is quite evident that
something has happened to Paul lately. Maybe he
just doesn’t do as well with line drawings as he
does with a brush, but I don’t go for his interiors
much. They just don’t look like Paul to me. How
about a credit line for the pic on pages 44-45 ? 1
don’t recognize the vague outlines and shadow}
depths in this one ! Doolin has got too much light
scattered around on page 25. After all, the stars
and planets are in plain sight, yet the foreground
looks like it might be high noon. He did a
pretty good job on page 39, though. Personally
I like that Frank Godwin pic on page 38 — th<
USO thing! There I go again! Lubbers couldn’t
have spent much time on that abortion on page
65! Shall we forget it? Walker has a rather
confusing conglomeration on page 91, too, doesn’t
he? There’s that man again on page 101. Why
don’t you give him credit? Isn’t it the same guy
who did the one on 44-45 ? Or am I going blind—
again? That’s a nice bit of drawing on the Vizi
graph, too. Think I’ll make that my secon<
choice. I keep hearing funny, rasping noises In
my ears. Someone must be reading this!

All of which brings me to the fifty-third claus<
in the contract, which says, quote, “Go to bed!”
Unquote. Mayhap I shall do better after I get
into the swing of this Vizigraph writing. Any
way, I’ll be back next time, and if I so much as
hear a whisper about Cummings from a Vizi-
fanner between now and then, I shall personally
rend him appendage from appendage! And don”
forget those staples !

Sincerely,

Francis Elliott,

The Dweller in Darkness.

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